


Ars Memoria

by proser132



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Confusion, Esoteria, F/M, M/M, Mind Healers, Professor Black being witty, Slash, The Weasley Clan, abrupt love interest, and can't talk himself out of it, mindfuckery, really though Harry talks himself into it, the idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proser132/pseuds/proser132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Potter could give him prestige and power again if he cured him of this coma. That was all. Or so Healer Draco thought before he started looking into Harry Potter's memories. M, HPDM, EWE. X-post from FFN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Riddling

* * *

**Ars Memoria**

**1\. Riddling**

* * *

He never quite understood why he had become a Healer. Well, that was a little inaccurate; he knew why, but the reason was so nebulous and complex it seemed like just another vague irregularity in his ordered life. It was just easier not to think about it.

It had started... well, it had started sometime after the Battle of Hogwarts. After his rather unpleasant brush with Fiendfyre (as if everything else during that battle had been lovely in comparison, with so many people he knew dead), he had had to spend an extended visit at St. Mungo's. He had _hated_ it. Everyone fussing, not a moment of privacy – he had been glad to get home.

Then... well, then he had realised how mistaken he had been to think that the War was over.

Death Eaters fought fiercely for their freedom, and in a flash attack, he had managed to keep the entirety of the defence line alive by using various spells he had seen in use in St. Mungo's. He had never thought he could be useful quite like that. A use beyond his name.

In fact, Draco had liked that feeling so much that several months later had found him in midst of signing up for Healer certification. His father had objected from prison (thankfully, he had come quietly, instead of resisting, winning himself a kinder sentence). His mother had wondered from her new home on the Continent what kind of job that was for a Malfoy, or a Black.

Draco ignored them. Wasn't any of their business, really; his mother had fled both of those names by hiding from her critics, and his father had defiled the Malfoy honour by choosing to cower from his crimes. A true Malfoy would have walked into the prison, head held high; he had arrived in the thick of night, in complete secrecy.

Besides, he'd never been _good_ at something before. He was a passable flyer, yes, and he'd gotten good grades in Potions; but he'd been taught almost since birth to fly, and his Potions grades, once Snape left, had plummeted. But he was good at something now, a subject few of his classmates were particularly talented at, and the murmurs and covert sneers died away as it became obvious he was more than a pretty face.

Not that he wasn't proud of that, mind you, but this was something beyond his lineage or his looks.

_Ars Memoria._

An obscure, difficult branch of magic, Draco was the only one who showed proficiency at it. And in his second year, he went abroad to learn the intricacies – something St. Mungo's would never be able to give him.

Six years later he had returned and was (amusingly) appointed the Head of Memory and The Memory Ward.

Draco's eyes swept his office, and he knew that upon his face would be a smug smirk (passed down from father to son, of course.) Two portraits graced his walls, both of which were empty at the moment – Sir Laurence Poppymont, the creator of _Ars Memoria,_ and the only Slytherin Headmaster in Hogwarts' history, Phineas Nigellus Black. He was very proud of those portraits; there were only four of Sir Poppymont's ever created, and the only other portrait of Phineas was in Hogwarts. Various Orders of Merlin decorated the walls (he'd healed several important personages in the past two years), two bookshelves stood behind his desk, and otherwise the room was barren. Precisely the image Draco wanted to convey – elegance and power, but no patience for frivolities.

A knock on the door snapped his attention back to the moment, and he sat up even straighter in his seat. The key was never to look relaxed or off-guard, and never let any higher-ups think that he was somehow subservient to them. He had been given this prestigious position due to hard work and careful steps, and Merlin help the wizard (or witch) who dared to question his authority in this wing of the hospital.

'Enter,' he said, smiling slightly to add a once-unheard-of warmth to his voice.

Healer Smethwyck opened the door, breathing hard, and Draco's eyebrow rose; the man, a recent transfer to his wing, was getting on in years. He never ran anywhere, and Draco had no doubt that he was cursing the anti-Apparating wards all over the hospital.

'There's – we have a – new patient,' Smethwyck gasped out. Draco's other eyebrow rose to meet the first; that wasn't so unusual. 'Happened – right in the – middle of the World – Cup prelims,' he added, standing up straight and starting to calm his breathing. 'There's press all over the place – the fans are bloody angry, sir, if you'll pardon my language.' Draco nodded to indicate he did, and then stood.

'The case?'

'We have no idea, sir,' Smethwyck said, opening the door for Draco and following him outside. 'He lost all memory then fell into a coma.'

'The name?' Draco asked, then added, 'His current state?'

'He's been placed in one of the highest security rooms, with guards posted outside – the press were ravenous until we beat them back,' Smethwyck said, sounding disappointed in the world at large. 'You're the only one qualified to heal him, sir – he's your patient, now. Besides, it would be terrible press for the hospital if any but you would tend to him.' Smethwyck winced. 'It might _still_ be bad press...'

'The name?' Draco repeated, dreading it before Smethwyck spoke.

'Harry J. Potter.'

Draco nodded, instead of letting his head fall into his hands like he wanted to. 'State of injuries?'

'Several deep gashes, bruises, a broken right arm, the curse, and two curse scars on his wrists,' Smethwyck rattled off, looking relieved that Draco hadn't chosen to vent his frustration by cursing him.

'Well, yes, he does rather like those, doesn't he,' Draco muttered under his breath as they turned down the corridor. He had no doubt Smethwyck would have responded, if it wasn't for the fact that they were distracted by the crowd in front of one of the rooms – comprised entirely of hospital staff.

'Ahem,' Draco said quietly, but it was enough. They scattered, obviously hoping he hadn't seen their faces.

'Debted ter yer, Healer Malfoy,' one of the guards said, looking relieved. 'Almos' as bad as th' reporters, iffin yer askin' me.'

'I would greatly appreciate it if you would write down a list of the personnel here, for disciplinary action later,' Draco said, and the guard nodded before stepping aside to let him passage. Smethwyck had already left.

Inside the room there was a witch doing the basic patching up; the bones were healed, the gashes smoothed, the bruises erased. The only things that made it look like Potter wasn't taking a remarkably expensive nap were the thick bandages on his wrists. He had grown older in the eight years since Draco had last seen him; there were wind-creases and laugh-lines about his eyes, and his frame was taller, skinnier. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the slightest hint of stubble about his chin. He appeared to need a nap, Draco noted, or at least a night's sleep. His glasses were conspicuously missing.

He let the witch finish in silence, and then she left, nodding her head respectfully as she passed. The door clicked shut.

He locked it, then walked over to Potter. 'Good evening, Mr. Potter,' he said quietly, studying his school-boy rival. Talking to unconscious patients was a terrible habit he had picked up at a hospital in Prague; he would have to stop it someday, but as he was alone at the moment, he figured there was no problem. 'It appears you're not feeling up to scratch, hm?' Muttering _Lumos_ , he pulled Potter's eyelids up and checked the dilation; there was no movement other than the shrinking of the iris. Draco took his pulse, which was steady but slow; the typical heart-rate of the deeply asleep.

So, there was nothing wrong with him physically; as far as they could tell, the injuries had come from either secondary curses or the fall from his broom. He had been low enough to survive the fall, Draco supposed, or he had no doubt reporters would have been the least of his problems.

Well, then. Time to check the state of his memories.

Draco took a step back, breathed deeply, then spoke the spell that had made him one of the finest _Ars Memoria_ practitioners since Sir Poppymont himself.

' _Potentia est animus, animus est memoria, memoria est potentia_.'

Power is mind, mind is memory, memory is power. The combination of the three was the key to –

Light blue bubbles, effervescent and glowing, blossomed out from the curse mark on Potter's forehead, and Draco breathed a deep sigh of relief; the memories were at least still present. He had been secretly dreading the hell he would get for announcing to the Wizarding World that their Saviour was a lost cause.

Another bloom of blue caught his eye, and he turned to the light, brow raised in preparation. To his consequent jaw-drop, blossoms of light were frothing up from beneath the bandages. The memories struggled to break free of the cloth, small tadpoles of light emerging to float, unexpected and conspicuous, beside the other memories.

' _Diffindo_ ,' he murmured, and the bandages fell apart; bubbles raced into the air, as if desperate to be free of the mind that housed them. Taking great care not to touch any of them, Draco leaned closer to study the scars.

They glowed bright blue, a trio of Xs that gleamed with every bubble that came forth. Looking up, he noted the same sheen at Potter's curse scar; curious. That had never happened before, in the truly thousands of times that he had performed this spell. Unless... No. That was Dark magic, very Dark. No one would be stupid enough to use that. There had to be other things that could cause those curse scars, or the lights...

It was growing late in the evening, though, and he didn't have time to start the pain-staking process of deciding what, exactly, had caused Potter's memory lock and subsequent coma.

So he returned the bubbles to Potter with a flick of the wand, and left the room, promptly walking into a nightmare of a press conference.

* * *

Two hours later, Draco left the horde of reporters to retrieve his jacket and return home to the Manor. He shut the door on a disgustingly still-persistent Rita Skeeter (Merlin, he couldn't believe he'd once actually _helped_ that roach) and cast a Silencing Charm on the door before breathing deeply, the only kind of weakness he'd allow himself at work.

Yes, he may have been appointed on the strength of his reputation alone, but that was an honour and not one he'd lose to the gossiping Healers who worked under him.

Straightening slightly (he never let himself slump more than a fraction of an inch), he reached for his jacket and counted to ten. He then opened the door.

Rita Skeeter wasn't there, to his intense relief, and he strode briskly down the hall, whipping through twists and turns unknown to even advanced Healers; well, he should be less proud of that. It was he who had installed them, after all.

He arrived at the lobby in record time, long before any of the reporters he knew to still be lurking upstairs would think to look for him here, and flashed the Welcome Witch a smile that was cordial, but no more.

Hannah Abbot returned it before continuing to direct the stream of witches and wizards to the appropriate wards; many of them, Draco noted as he passed, were there due to a Quidditch-related argument.

He stepped outside of the hospital into a quiet street, empty of even the stragglers that normally haunted it; strange, that. Even in Muggle London, there was always one or two late night shoppers trying to find a reasonable price at ten in the evening.

Shaking the ominous feeling off (whatever was happening in the Muggle world rarely had anything to do with him), he found a nice alley and Apparated to the Manor with no problems.

The tight squeeze of the tube (still uncomfortable despite his many years as a practising Apparater) brought him to the gates of the Manor. The elegance of his anti-Apparition wards had left many a visitor both frustrated and impressed; instead of threatening the would-be Apparater with Splinching or pain, the wards merely directed the person to the outside of the gates and even alerted those inside of whom, precisely, was trying to gain entry.

At this moment, the house elves were scurrying to touch up the dinner he'd expect and find a good bottle of wine to compliment it, run extra cleanings down every hall, and make sure to have his mail sorted and waiting on his desk.

He smiled as he opened the gates and strode in; it was precisely what he'd envisioned for himself in school, he noted with a satisfied air as he handed his jacket to the house elf that had appeared. A highly respected position of power, a comfortable home life, a restoration of the Malfoy fortune...

In fact, the only thing he was missing in reality that he had seen in his dreams of the future was a wife.

He frowned momentarily before shaking it off again; he had made his choices, and while he may regret them (late at night, in his master bedroom, when the nightmares woke him yet again despite his ritual Dreamless Sleep potion), they were what they were. No respectable pureblood woman would marry a former Death Eater, even if he had been a child at the time. It was a stain that couldn't be washed off, and when his mother had made the tentative suggestion that he marry a half-blood descended from a good family, he had been shocked and offended.

' _It may be for the best, darling,_ ' she had said through the Floo connection, looking uncertain of herself. ' _The Malfoys' need an heir.'_

' _I will not marry beneath my station,'_ Draco had replied stiffly, then terminated the connection. Better a bachelor than a blood traitor, in his opinion. And as his mother wasn't truly a Malfoy, anyway, she could place her misguided ideals elsewhere.

Draco nodded to the house elf, who had led her unusually absent-minded master to the smallest of the three dining rooms, and she turned and left, courteous and prim. Floating candles illuminated the room, and a perfectly roasted duck steamed on the table, the skin a perfect golden brown.

He sat down and ate until he was full, enjoying the flavour and the way it matched the white wine that had been selected, before leaving the table and retiring to his study.

Clean and lit with a cheerful yellow flame in the hearth, it had once been his father's. The wood had been cut sharp and painfully imposing; Draco had softened it to a more subtle impression, the carvings in the enchanted cherry-wood glowing red gold and smouldering like coals. He sat in his seat, and reached for his mail.

His subscription to several of the more posh Wizarding magazines; those were discreetly incinerated in the wastebasket designed expressly for that purpose, as they were primarily for show and a bit _too_ posh for his tastes.

Several letters from lesser colleagues around the world. Simplistic in nature, most of these followed the magazines, except for a letter from a respected _Ars Memoria_ practitioner from Japan.

A letter for Harry Potter.

Draco's eyebrow rose, and he sat forward; no, it wasn't _for_ Potter, it was _from_ Potter.

His other eyebrow rose.

Then, it was a mad (if elegant) search for the letter opener – whatever had prompted a letter from his school rival who was currently sitting in the hospital in a coma, it _must_ be fascinating.

He paused, letter opener in hand. And possibly an explanation for the coma, now that he thought about it; he snorted. The prat had probably cursed himself, if his memory of Potter's ineptitude was anything to go on.

He set the letter opener down as the image of Potter flashed before his eyes, arguing for his mother. Not for him – he had been sitting behind Potter at the time, and had never caught a glimpse of his face throughout the entire proceedings. But he had seen him when he was fighting for Narcissa's freedom, and his face had been determined as he argued relative right and wrong, something that must have been drilled into his skull by Hermione Granger before the testimony.

Not just determined – angry as he spoke of the curses he had seen, soft when he had spoken of what he understood of her lie to the Dark Lord, sharp when he answered rebuttals from the Wizengamot. It had been too alive, even after death, for the thought of him wanting to return to a similar state to really take hold.

 _You're never going to know if you sit here and wonder,_ Draco thought sharply, and opened the letter.

_Draco –_

_Sorry, I don't have time to scribble that out, meant to write Malfoy._ (Draco snorted; it must have taken longer to write out the sentence.)

_I'm not doing well – there's something wrong, someone who's after me. I can't say more, but I have reason to think that I'll have to depend on you very soon. Someone mentioned that you went into memory magic after school – I hope so, or I'll look like a right prat – and I really need your help._

_I don't know the name of the spell that he's planning on using on me, but I know that it'll lock up my memories. I don't know how to unlock them, either. I don't know what will happen to me after. But I need someone I can trust to be in charge of my memories, and while I never thought that person would be you, here we are._

_I can't avoid him for more than it will take to write this letter, so I really need you to take this seriously. Chances are if you've received this, I'm already in the hospital._

_When I'm cursed, I need you to take charge of my case, and try to undo what's done. I can't write his name here sorry no time have to go_

_Harry Potter_

Draco had never received so bizarre a correspondence in his life. The hand writing was shaky, with large inkblots all over the parchment; however, it was easily the messy scrawl that he remembered from his school days. He called out for Dringa, the house elf in charge of the Manor's owlery.

She Apparated with nary a crack, as all of the Manor's house elves were trained to do; immediately, she swept a low bow, her long, spindly nose bending where it met the carpet.

'What can Dringa be doing for the Master?' she said humbly, her voice containing a faint rasp that all owls seemed drawn to.

'What was the state of the owl that delivered the letter from one Harry J. Potter?' Draco demanded.

'It was rumpled, Master, and very unhappy, Master. It looked to be thrown out a window, Master.' She bowed again. 'It's in the owlery, Master, recovering. When would you like it sent back?'

'Keep it here, Dringa,' Draco said distractedly, his eyes falling on the letter again. 'Mr. Potter is in no state to receive an owl.'

Dringa nodded passively along. 'Will that be all, Master?' she asked, bowing yet again.

Instead of being impressed by her impeccable manners, as he was wont to do when faced with a talented elf, his stomach turned over in a manner most unpleasant. 'That is all.'

She Disapparated silently, and Draco stood, leaving the study to follow the wending hallways to his room, where a cup of still warm Dreamless Sleep potion would be waiting.

* * *

_That night, for the first time in many years, Draco dreamt of Fiendfyre._

_He struggled against the flames, winding like snakes, piercing like blades, bright as the sun and still brighter, and though he was afraid, he also was not. He was terrified, but wondered why he was frightened of a snake; it had once been his House symbol, after all. And what did he have to fear from blades or the sun? He'd faced far worse – the pale face of the moon, marred with slits that shone the red of malice._

_But still he struggled, and still he cried out, and still he screamed until he awoke. And when he stood from his sweat-soaked bed and went to the window for some air, he saw fingerprints bruised into his face._

_They would have to be Vanished in the morning._

* * *

Draco Apparated into the alley from the night before, and stepped out into sunny London. Muggles passed him, parcels clutched in their hands and children trailing behind, clutching at coat-tails. Draco discreetly pressed the brooch at his chest, which glamoured the pale silver robes he wore as a mark of his status into ordinary Muggle clothes – a suit and tie, something that he had been assured was normal Muggle business-wear.

He paused a moment before plunging into the sweep of human bodies, marvelling as always at the prevalence of Muggles. They were clearly the lesser race in the specie of man, yet they had multiplied until they filled the corners of the earth, leaving little room for Wizardingkind. How strange then, that they were so vulnerable; with one sweep of his wand he could erase all of their memories, or turn them all into maggots, or simply kill them. Yet they continued on, never knowing that there was something better out there.

He pushed the thoughts away – stupid sentimentality, nothing more – and came to a stop in front of the Muggle façade that disguised St. Mungo's. Casting a quick glance around and judging that no one's eyes were on him, he ducked through the glass.

The sensation of warm water left him as he stepped into the lobby. Relief gave him the slightest buoyancy in his step as he realised that there was only a small mob of reporters there, as opposed to the massive riot that had taken place the night before. He passed through, releasing the glamour as he went, and they only realised who had passed when the corner of his silver robes swished around the corner.

None followed him, however, and he supposed he should be thankful for that. Reporters had unusually keen observational skills (it was part of the job, after all) and they might have seen the hint of a glamour on his face. The Vanishing hadn't been as effective as he could have wished.

He made a stop at his office, checking the papers left for him to sign; he could focus on them later, though. The letter from Potter burned in his pocket, whispering imperiously, lines from within floating across the back of Draco's mind. _I need your help... I'm not doing well... When I'm cursed..._

_I need someone I can trust._

Draco would be lying if he said he wasn't pleased about that, frankly. There had always, _always_ , been a part of him that stung at the mention of Potter's name, an old wound inflicted at the start of their rivalry, when Potter had rejected him for that blood-traitor Weasel. Yes, Potter was a half-blood, but he was also a source of immense power, both politically and magically. Even as a child, it had burned Draco that he had been denied that.

And now, because of his hard work to redeem his own name, he was being offered it again. He had no plans to let it pass; the power an agreeable acquaintance with Harry Potter would give him was near unimaginable.

He left his office and followed the same route as he had the day before. On the way, he found many Healers lurking where they shouldn't, and even some from other wings of the hospital; a quick glare and a sharp word sent them scurrying, but Draco found that his irritation began to rise and hiss, pine pitch thrown into fire with every errant Healer he came across.

Thankfully, no one was stupid enough to lurk in the corridor which housed Potter, not even the guards; as he suspected they were trying to keep the reporters downstairs under control, he was unsurprised. He reached for the handle, then froze as a voice floated through the wood.

'Do you think we can get anything from him, Rita?' A soft, effeminate voice came through – male, yes, but whiny.

Then, to Draco's loathing, he heard Rita Skeeter say back in her nasally voice, 'Of course, Ben. We wouldn't be here if we couldn't.'

Draco opened the door near silently, stepping into the space between corridor and room and watching with a carefully cold expression. His insides were boiling, but that was his business, no one else's.

'Besides,' Rita continued, sweeping her glamoured hair to the side; it was brown and bushy, and familiar. 'That Healer let us in thinking we were friends of Potter. What's he going to say? And the Head of the ward isn't here yet.'

'If you say so, boss,' Bill replied; he was also glamoured, to have red hair and freckles.

It clicked. They were posing as Granger and Weasley, and some prat had let them in without checking with Draco first.

He coughed delicately, and Skeeter jumped. 'Oh!' she said in a high, girlish voice. 'It must be the Healer! We should go, H-' She turned, and her face went sour. 'Malfoy. Bollocks,' she swore in her normal voice.

Ben just looked nauseous.

'I will have to see who let you in, as neither of you look like the Weasleys,' Draco said, keeping the boiling inside and encasing it with ice. 'They will of course be fired. And you two...' He smiled softly, and Skeeter flinched. 'I will be contacting Magical Law Enforcement, as Mr. Potter was clearly written down to have no visitors, much less visitors of your variety.' He stepped out of the way, and dropped the smile.

'Go.'

They scurried past him, Rita pointedly not looking at him and Ben looking like he was trying not to be ill.

Draco shut the door quietly and sighed, a small, tight sound that was only loud enough to cross the short distance between his mouth and his ears. He closed his eyes a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the tension in his head; it, predictably, didn't help.

'Good morning, Mr. Potter,' he said, striding over. A few quick diagnostic spells proved Potter to be no worse than he had been the day before; in reality he looked better, what with the dark circles beneath his eyes receding and the scars looking less welted. Draco ran a hand over Potter's forehead, looking for a fever and finding none.

He pulled away reflectively, and took out the letter. 'I would love dearly to ask you about this,' he said ruefully as he Summoned a chair from his office with a flick of his wand, 'But it would seem you're no closer to waking than you were yesterday.'

He sat with a small creak from the antique chair, and unfolded the letter. 'Musing aloud will help, at least,' Draco continued. 'Perhaps by speaking, I will rouse you from your state of rest.' He gave Potter an amused look before he knew what he was doing, and immediately rectified it to a look of cool indifference. 'I doubt it, however.'

He set the letter aside and pointed his wand at Potter, focussing. Even if Potter awoke, he would have no memory to explain. It would have to be his memories that spoke for him.

' _Memoria_ _tempore_ ,' Draco murmured, then said clearly, 'The last two years.'

Again, memories blossomed from the scars, but now they were a more concentrated blue, glowing rather than shining; they lifted languidly from Potter's skin with low _pops_ of release before floating in the air. Draco watched them critically; each one was a different hue of blue, indicating the most prevalent emotion in each. Red was anger and frustration, purple fear and pain; green was comfort and yellow was happiness or contentment. Orange indicated dissatisfaction, and indigo – rarer because it was so hard to spot – meant significant changes in the individual.

Strangely, there was much more red and orange tinted blue colours than green or yellow, the ones that Draco would have expected from a life as seemingly charmed as Potter's. He set those aside, letting the green and yellow return to Potter; he didn't know if Potter could dream, but if he could, at least he would have pleasant ones.

There were no purple, but there were two indigo – strange. Draco had chosen such a short span that it was shocking to see any, much less two. Something had changed Potter drastically.

But first the red and orange bubbles would have to be examined; they were far more likely to carry information pertaining to the spell. He returned the indigo orbs with a flick of his wrist.

'We want to see him! It's our right –'

'He doesn't have anyone else, you twat, he's _my_ best friend, I can see him if I bloody well –'

'But you've already been in today!'

Draco stood, returned all of the memories, and opened the door, looking appraisingly at the two who turned to stare at him.

Granger had grown into herself, he had to admit; the hair was longer and not so bushy as it once had been. Weasley was, remarkably, taller than Draco remembered, with his shock of red hair tied back. He still had his freckles.

Draco looked to the Healer, who looked as startled as Weasley and Granger. Augustus Pye; he must have been the one who...

Draco's irritation rose like a wave of bile before he could control it, and he barked, 'Healer Pye, these two have not been in to visit. The two you let in were Rita Skeeter and her assistant. Now, I ask you to leave – report to me at the end of the day. We will be discussing disciplinary measures.'

Pye scurried away, looking terrified out of his mind. Good.

'Malfoy,' Weasley said, looking bowled over.

'Healer Malfoy, I'd thank you to call me,' Draco said, reining in his anger. There was time enough for that later. 'Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley-Granger. I apologise for the harassment. He will be dealt with appropriately.' He looked at them speculatively. 'Please, come in. I have some questions for you.'

'And I have a question for you!' Weasley said, looking outraged. 'What's with _you_ treating Harry! That's not on!'

'Ron!' Granger said, looking irritated.

Draco allowed himself a small smile. 'Mr. Potter asked me to.'

As he'd suspected, the look on Weasley's face was priceless.

'Please, come in,' Draco repeated, stepping out of the way. 'From the look on your faces, I doubt Mr. Potter told you of his... dilemma.'

'And you expect me to believe he came to you?' Weasley blustered, but stepped through anyway. Malfoy Summoned more chairs. 'With your history?'

'I rather suspect he has grown past his school rivalry,' Draco said dryly, and Weasley flushed angrily.

His wife shut him up with a muttered ' _Silencio_ ,' before turning to Draco. The look in her eyes was cool, despite the apologetic tone in her voice as she said, 'Forgive us, but it _is_ a little unbelievable.'

'Would you like to see the letter?' Draco offered graciously, and handed her the paper when she nodded.

He left her to read and made himself busy with the basic diagnostic spells again; Potter's heart rate was up, likely from the loud voices, and his brain wave patterns were disturbingly flat. They had begun to waver normally when Granger said quietly, 'He's said nothing of this.'

'He also said that he couldn't steal time away for longer than it took to write the letter,' Draco replied without turning around. The brain waves were undisturbed. 'Is there a reason that he would have been unable to do so?'

Evidently Granger had removed the Silencing Charm, because it was Weasley who answered, 'Yeah. He's been training for the World Cup non-stop, hasn't he?' There was a snort of irritation. 'He's been so busy we've only seen him twice in the past four months.'

'Was he normal before then?' Draco said, interested enough to turn around; it could help him narrow down the search.

Weasley was looking at him like he was a scorpion he wasn't certain had been drained of its venom. 'Yeah,' he said. 'He was relaxed, even after...' he shook his head. 'He's had a rough time of it for the past couple of years, and it had been stressing him into an ulcer, I swear. Didn't help that the bloody idiot didn't understand the word 'limit'. He always acted like he didn't have any.'

'After surviving what he has,' Granger added with a fond look in Potter's direction, 'I don't think he believes he does.'

Draco's eyebrow rose, but he said nothing.

After a moment of silence, Draco risked it. 'Do either of you have any idea who could have done this?'

'None,' Weasley said, surprised into an honest answer.

'Everyone who knew him loved him,' Granger added; Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Evidently, Weasley had no such constraints, as he did so and threw in a derisive snort to boot. 'Or was so envious of him they hated him,' he said for Draco's benefit. 'The captain of Puddlemere United hated his guts for outdoing his prior performance last year – broke the previous record for a Snitch catch by a clean two seconds. Not to mention the two reserve Seekers for Puddlemere, who almost never get a chance to play. Last time either of them did it was because Harry caught a cold that kept him in bed for two weeks.'

Draco frowned; he had known none of that. Was he truly so out of touch with the rest of the world?

'Would any of them have cursed him?'

'The Seekers,' Granger piped up, studying Potter hard like he was a book in a language she didn't recognise. 'The Captain, if he was pushed. And one of the Beaters; his girlfriend left him to follow Harry around for two weeks like a lost Crup puppy.'

Draco's face tightened inexplicably, even as Weasley snorted yet _again_.

'Harry _hated_ that,' he said, sounding heavily amused. 'He hated being loved for being a hero or a star Quidditch player. Think that's why he dropped Ginny – she was too star-struck.'

Draco stared unabashedly; clearly he _was_ that disconnected with the entirety of the world if he hadn't heard the news that surely would have been babbled all over the cover of the _Daily Prophet_.

Ron shrugged. 'That had him down for a long while – I think he was counting on her being the one person who wouldn't be, and _bam_ – there she was, all melting eyes and attempts to _understand the way he felt_...' Ron made a gagging motion that Draco approved of and Granger decidedly did _not_ , if the foot stomp that followed the little performance proved anything.

Draco had never thought himself to agree with Weasley, but even if he _was_ a blood traitor, he was a pureblood. Some allowances should be made, he supposed.

They stood to go.

'You will keep us posted?' Granger said fretfully, looking from Draco to Potter with dark eyes. 'We're listed as his next of kin, of course you would –'

'Let the man breathe, 'Mione,' Weasley said, than turned to Draco. Draco, in that moment, realised that much of what he remembered from couldn't be applied to the two in front of him. Indeed, if he carried those convictions with him into the study of Potter's memory, he would not understand what was being shown him.

Strange, how things could take so long to sink in.

'He's trusting you to take care of him,' Weasley forced out of himself, each word abrupt and harsh. 'I'm not sure _why_ , yet, but I know that he is, so I expect you to do so.'

 _I will_ , Draco said in his head, but decided that was too vulnerable a statement to say aloud, and settled for a nod. Weasley stuck out his hand, and Draco found himself shaking it.

'Shall I show you out, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley?' he said courteously. Weasley scowled.

'Either call us Weasley and Granger, or Ron and Hermione,' he said, then added guardedly, 'It makes me sound like my parents.'

Draco nodded in acquiescence (he, personally, would never allow them to call him less than Healer Malfoy), but directed a small smile their way by habit. He always did that to the family and friends of his patients – a rare occurrence from a Malfoy, and one that should be treasured as such.

Weasley stared, then a strange look crossed his face at the same time it passed over Granger's – a look of sudden reconciliation, the realisation that something they knew was confirmed.

They excused themselves and left quietly; the last Draco saw of them was a swish of Granger's robes and a small, mouthed phrase from Weasley, obviously directed at Potter.

_I understand._

Draco did not, but he supposed that was Weasley's privilege and not his own.

Draco turned back into the room, to the sleeping Potter, and thought quietly in the deafening silence of the empty room that ten years could indeed change people. Just as his father had said it –

Well. They had at the very least given him a better time frame to work with. ' _Mentis tempore_ ,' he said, pointing his wand at Potter, then added, 'The last four months.'

Fewer bubbles appeared, but there were only three green or yellow ones present. Those he could safely disregard – probably visits with Weasley and Granger. Orange was the predominant theme, but for a single indigo bubble and the occasional red; he looked at the indigo with wonder. Clearly this was the source of the change that Potter's friends had seen in him.

Something stayed Draco's hand, however, from bringing the bubble to himself and diving into its depths; some strange contrived sense of privacy, or something deeper that was foreign to him. He could not place it, nor name it, but wished it gone.

It only vanished when the bubble was sent back into Potter.

He turned instead to the red coloured bubbles, herding them away from the others with gentle prods of his wand. He would have to cast a localised spell to summon the other hues later, but for now the three bubbles before him would do.

He turned to the first and, with a deep breath, stretched out a finger and touched it.

* * *

The sense of falling, so familiar from his years spent studying Pensieves, ending when he alit in a small room, lit by sunlight and the soft glow of a Lumos over a page. Potter was sitting on the edge of a bed, examining the paper closely; on the writing desk sat a blue jay, preening its feathers and chirping softly.

Draco studied Potter closely; he did not look upset, as these memories typically started out. This was clearly the earliest, however, of the three memories, as outside the leaves on the trees were palest green and just beginning to unfurl from their buds. Early March, he'd say, or late February, if they were in the south.

There were also no dark circles under his eyes, though there was a cast to them that spoke of sleepless nights.

'This is _shit_ ,' Potter said disgustedly, and threw the paper down on the floor. To Draco's delight it landed face up, and he bent over delicately to read it.

_Harry J. Potter,_

_We regret to inform you that your application for a visitor's visa has been rejected. Based on your power of your magical core and history, it would not be wise to allow you rights to visit the United States of America, due to..._

Draco stood again, surprised. A visitor's visa to America? What on earth would Potter want with _America_?

Potter had flung an arm over his eyes and lay back on the bed, muttering angrily. Draco, once he deigned to listen, was startled to hear:

'My magical core and history, my _arse_...Shacklebolt better have a better reason than my _history_ to keep me here in Britain...'

A knock on the door and Potter sat up, his face curiously guarded.

A male voice rang through, one Draco didn't recognise. 'Potter! On the field in ten!'

'Yes, sir,' Potter said sulkily, and started to root around for practice robes. Draco, having no desire to see _that_ , let himself be pulled from the memory.

* * *

Again, he was standing in the hospital room. He returned the memory to Potter, thoughtful. Had he not been, he would have missed the flush on the sleeping Potter's cheeks, or the ragged breathing, or the flickering eyes beneath the lids –

Diagnostic spells showed that his dreams were disturbed, and his heart rate was up. Draco ran a worried hand over Potter's brow before he knew what he was doing; he pulled away, startled, cursing himself. The diagnostic spells had showed that he was _fine_ , there was no need to be concerned.

Still. Draco considered Potter's face, something disturbingly similar to disquiet haunting his stomach. That had never once been a side effect of the Memory Search Charm. _Never_. Most patients were unaware entirely that anyone had been poking around in their memories, and not once had there been a physical response to the probing. Draco waved his wand in a sharp jerking motion.

'Patient: Harry J. Potter,' He said aloud, and there was a small flickering red light that appeared before his mouth – the Recording Charm. 'Date: July 3rd, 2007. Memo to the effects of the Memory Search Charm on Mr. Potter. Heightened heart rate and breathing; dreams have been disturbed. Unexplained – may be due to the curse, may be due to Mr. Potter's own... _unusual_ reactions to spells in previous years.' Draco rolled his eyes. 'Will proceed as planned, unless the disturbances continue.'

He ended the charm with another jerk, and mentally stored the recording to be pulled forth again later.

Then he turned to the second red-sheened bubble and caught it in his left hand.

* * *

Falling, again; normally that only happened in the first memory. Curious.

He found himself in a dimly lit round room, filled with haphazard tables and the scent of bodies, firewhiskey, and cheap dragonsbreath wine. A bar, if he wasn't mistaken, and not a very high-class one.

From the warmth and scent of flowers wafting through the open door, he judged it to be mid-April, and from the thick accents he could tell they were closer to Scotland than to Wales. Interesting.

A man stood across the room, and Draco's eyes flew to him.

He tried to tell himself it was the stance that marked Potter to him, the familiar defiant stance, but knew it could not be it; he hadn't seen Potter stand in ten years, only sleep, and there was nothing defiant about _that_.

Then he thought it was the hair, but that was currently pinned beneath a robe's hood. And it couldn't be the face or the glasses or the body-type, because Draco could ascertain _none_ of that from Potter's current stance. But still, there was Potter, wide shoulders thrown back, head tilted backward as if he was sighing in exasperation.

Or pleasure.

Draco stuffed _that_ particular disturbing thought away for careful scrutiny later, and focussed on gliding through the tables to come to a stop just behind Potter.

'I don't know what your problems are,' Potter was saying, his head tilted forward again to glare at the two men before him. One had sandy brown hair, laying limp against his scalp as if it had been thrown there and didn't have the energy to get back up again; the other was so nondescript that the only word to come to Draco's mind when he saw him was 'brown'. 'It's not my fault that I got forward Seeker over you two.'

'So we should be _thankful_ that we get to play back-up to the Great Bloody Harry Potter?' the blond snarked, and Draco winced; his voice was grating and nasally, a voice made for the pure purpose of irritation. 'Excuse _us_ if we're not _jumping_ for _joy_.'

'Hmph,' the brown man said, his dislike evident enough in that one word that he need say nothing else.

'I've done nothing but play my best,' Potter protested, and Draco shook his head; Potter, it seemed, had retained his school-boy naivete about the world and its opinions of him. People would be jealous of him for _precisely_ that, for putting his all into it, for not giving enough to them personally. He was the Saviour, after all; most people had never truly grasped that there was a human underneath all that.

Draco missed the brown man's response to that, shocked as he was that he himself had realised that fact about Potter.

 _Well, of course I have_ , he thought sharply, forcing himself to focus. _I have clearly known him far longer than these two have._

'I agree, Byron,' the snarky man said, glaring up at Potter. 'If Harry wants to be rude and disruptive, he can leave.'

Draco became suddenly aware of the fire-whiskey on the man's breath as he spoke, the glazed look in both men's eyes. Evidently, Potter had become aware of it, as well, as he wrinkled his nose in distaste.

'Good night, Byron, Rory,' he said, and turned, walking right through Draco towards the exit.

Normally, the passage through anything was cold, like a bucket of water over the head, but this passing was warm and soft – a brush of air, nothing more.

'Is that enough to drive you away? Where are you going?' Rory asked mockingly, and Potter turned back. Draco would have flinched from the look twisting Potter's face into a moue of disgust in a lesser man, but this was Potter, and he would not flinch away from Potter under any circumstances.

He fancied he saw a flicker of approval in Potter's eyes before he reminded himself sternly that this was a memory, and Potter couldn't see him, and he wasn't focussing. 'Out,' Potter said shortly, and left the bar with a long stride that Draco would have envied if he didn't have a longer one.

He followed Potter out, as the memory was showing no signs of ending, and was surprised when Potter did not simply Apparate and drag Draco with him. Instead, he reached for a Star-Shock 218 (the newest model in April, Draco remembered enviously. He hadn't flown in _years_ ) and took off, a hard look in his eyes and a hard set to his mouth.

Draco let himself be pulled along, away from the Wizarding village and into the night air. To the west, tall, angry clouds were beginning to gather, and Potter made for them at unhealthy speeds.

He seemed to care nothing for Muggles who might look up, or the fact that even Draco could feel the chill in the air, and he wore no coat; no, he was too intent on losing himself in the clouds and the cloudbursts that dropped to the earth, too intent on trying to dodge every raindrop that came his way. Draco had to admit it looked like he was succeeding, but then they were in the heart of the storm that had been building on the side of the world, and he was too busy watching.

Potter seemed to find the cloud-to-cloud lightning no concern, none at all. He, in fact seemed to revel in the danger, and if it wasn't for the fact that Draco knew that in the present day he was alive and unwell, he would have been frightened for Potter's life.

Finally, Potter came to a stop, thunder roiling in Draco's chest cavity and lightning crackling around, and it was still quiet enough for Draco to hear his words.

'He would have known what to say there,' Potter mutter, staring down at his hands. 'Of course he would have – he always knew what to say, the stupid git.' Potter shook his hair out of his eyes, as if finally aware that he was soaking wet; Draco noted that not even rain could tame Potter's hair. The wind had stripped it of the hood, and now it flung itself in every direction in utter defiance of the storm, a metaphorical _fuck you_.

'Well, he wasn't there, and he never will be, you ridiculous todger,' he seemed to say to himself. Draco refrained from laughing, but preserved the moment in his own memories; Potter calling himself a todger was priceless. 'I doubt he even knows you're still alive.'

He shook his head again and barrel rolled into a parabolic dive, not noticing that lightning swam through the spot he had been perched in before.

Draco let himself fade from the memory.

* * *

Draco hit his own body again with a sharp slam that sent him reeling. He stepped away from the memory, and banished it to Potter's mind once more; there had been something immensely disturbing about it, something familiar that he didn't like, something that left a bitter taste in his mouth that he longed to spit out. A Breath-Freshening Charm did nothing, so he left it be.

He took a deep breath and checked Potter again. As before, his dreams were disturbed and his pulse was up, but it had calmed some from the first memory. Draco brought forth the recording and activated it, adding,

'It seems to have less of an adverse reaction over time. Perhaps, by the end of this, Mr. Potter will have no reactions whatsoever.'

He ended and returned it to the little pocket of mind-space he stored all of his recordings in, and turned to the third bubble.

His stomach was unsettled, but he had to at least finish the red bubbles before the day was over. Already, the sun had passed its zenith and was starting to swing toward the horizon, the light gliding through the final bubble and dyeing the white-washed wall behind it a curious red-blue that wasn't purple, but separate, swirled.

It seemed so innocent and empty, for all the anger it held. He cupped his hand around it, keeping his skin from it by a hair's breadth, and wondered why he felt so disquieted.

Then he reminded himself what this patient could bring him if he took care of him, and let his fingers close over the bubble.

No falling, but it felt like stepping into a dream; where else would he find himself under such careful scrutiny from Potter, the man's green eyes trained on him like he wasn't looking straight through him?

Of course, he was, as there was no recognition of Draco in his eyes, but the sensation of being carefully and slowly studied was unnerving.

Draco looked away quickly, hating himself for the weakness, and took in the surroundings with a fierceness he wouldn't have considered had he not been under Potter's stare. Diagon Alley stretched out before him, shoppers in the garish colours of this season's fashion everywhere, looking like birds of paradise awkwardly dropped onto a grey canvas. Wizarding London was grey-skied and misted, the sure sign of late June; the air would have felt heavy on Draco's skin if Potter hadn't been so focussed on ignoring the atmospheric conditions. This was a very recent memory, then, and Draco turned back to Potter, studying him. Indeed, there were the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes, and there was a wariness in his stance – tense and ready to move – that Draco recognised from the war.

'Harry?'

Draco looked over Potter's shoulder at the same time Potter did, a sneer already in place for the red-headed woman who was looking so vulnerable. Draco snorted in an undignified manner before correcting it to a low growl of amusement; if Ginevra Weasley wanted to look vulnerable, she should stop sticking out her lower lip like that. She looked like she was trying to look like Celestina Warbeck on her newer album cover, _Witch's Brewery_ (or was that old, now? Draco didn't know).

'Ginny,' Potter said in a coolly polite tone that had Draco's eyebrow rising. Even if Weasley was right and Potter had dumped the woman in front of Draco, he had never thought Potter would be less than warm and friendly to a member of the Weasley clan.

'Harry,' Ginevra repeated in a warm voice that sounded too sweet for Draco's ears and made him roll his eyes at the continued repetition. 'How are you? It's been years.'

'I've been well,' Potter said stiffly, and Draco watched, amused, as his eyes scanned for an escape. Leave it to Potter to finally get a sense of taste and find himself saddled with the clingy ex of the century. 'And you?'

Draco winced; too polite. If Potter wanted her to shove off, he should have said so. Instead, Ginevra's eyes lit up, and she said quickly before Potter could make an excuse, 'Oh, I've been good. Excellent, in fact. I'm glad to see Puddlemere finally got a decent Seeker.' She smiled brightly at him, as if trying to show off her thin lips and slightly crooked (albeit white) teeth. 'The Harpies could use one, but...' she shrugged. 'We'll make do next season. Would you like – would you like to get lunch, or something?'

Potter stiffened, then shook his head. 'Sorry, Ginny, I've, uh, got errands,' he said uncomfortably. Draco watched with a mixture of glee and bare sympathy; Potter had walked into this one.

Ginevra's face fell, and she leaned forward, the soft, sweet demeanour falling away. 'You can't keep doing this, Harry,' she said, trying to look understanding (and not doing a very good job of it, Draco was pleased to note). 'I know you got into that minor row with Mum, but that's no reason to avoid everyone in the family but Ron and Ge-'

'I'll decide what's a good enough reason for myself, thanks,' Potter cut in, starting to look irritated.

'She just doesn't _understand_ , Harry –' Ginevra tried, and Draco tutted aloud; you did not try to talk Harry Potter into something. You had to trick him or convince him, and from the sour look on his face, Miss Ginevra Weasley was getting nowhere.

'And you do?' Potter said loudly, apparently not giving one single fuck about the passers-by who started to mutter speculatively behind hands and Notice-Me-Not Charms. 'Strange, because I'm almost certain I've made it clear that I'm not interested, and still I get a letter from your family trying to talk 'sense' into me –'

'Not so loud, Harry!' Ginny said in a low, snapping voice. 'We just want to understand –'

'Word of the day, is it?'

'Stop it!' she said loudly, giving _almost_ as good as she got in the glaring department. 'I just want to know what changed. You used to be normal – extraordinary, yes, but _normal_. What happened?'

Potter's look was a freezing glare that Draco would freely admit he'd be proud to call his own. 'Normal,' he repeated, then leaned in, his voice tight and cold in a way that spoke of rain and thunder and aching bones. ' _Normal_. Let me tell you what's not normal, Ginny. What's not normal is that you and your family, save Ron and George, don't understand that people _change_. Their tastes change, their values change, their faces change.'

Ginevra's eyes flicked up to the scar on Potter's face.

'And some things,' Potter continued, in that scaldingly cold tone that Draco found himself absurdly proud of, ' _never_ change. If you remember back, I was always obsessed with –'

Draco leaned in, curious, but Ginevra cut off the sentence with a shrill 'It's been eight _years_ , Harry! Eight! You should know how to give things up by now – you're twenty-seven!'

'This from you?' Potter scoffed. 'It's been six years, Ginny, since I broke off the engagement. Get used to it.'

He turned and walked right through Draco, his eyes roiling in their depths with darker and darker shades of green until it reached his pupil, the only true black. Warmth, roiling and much stronger than the passage before, blew through Draco and would have knocked him over if it hadn't been a memory.

When Potter passed through his body, the edges of his memory began to blur, marking the end; Draco noted before fading away himself that a cloaked figure followed Potter after a moment, and Potter's stride was harried and jerky, as if he was unnerved by something more than anger.

* * *

Draco stepped away from the bubble, considerably more steady than after the previous memory, and returned it to Potter with a careless flick of his wrist; he was too busy considering Potter's face to pay much attention to the bubble.

So Potter was obsessed with something enough to cause a rift between himself and the Weasleys, and he was plainly being followed. That one memory had been more useful than the other two put together, if Draco had to venture forth an opinion.

Together, then.

Draco created a new recording with another jerk of his wand and said, 'In the earliest memory, Potter was denied a visa to America. In the second, he was clearly at odds with his reserve Seekers. And in the third, it was revealed that he is so obsessed with something it has caused rifts between him and his loved ones.'

Draco paused, considering Potter's face for a moment, and wondered what it was. 'Also in the third memory, someone was following him. Identity unknown.'

Then, before he forgot, 'In the second memory, he was talking to himself about a 'him' he didn't name. About how 'he' would have known what to say in the argument with the reserve Seekers. Perhaps a clue to the identity of who was following him.'

Draco ended the recording, and paused. The sun had sunk lower, and he had paperwork to attend to before he could leave; but there was a part of him that wanted to delve into the other memories and see what puzzle pieces they held.

He shook the feeling off. He had duties to attend to beyond _Mr._ Potter, and as for his own unhealthy interest in the case... well. He'd have to put it aside.

He left the room after making sure all memories were returned to Potter, and shut the door quietly. Behind him, the sound of the lock clicking echoed around the room, and the comatose Potter shifted, just the tiniest bit.


	2. Addling

* * *

**Ars Memoria**

**2\. Addling**

* * *

Draco stared at the sheet of paper in front of him, trying to think of any details he'd missed. Even after finishing the last of his paperwork and addressing the needs of two other high-priority patients, he'd found himself edgy and distracted. Even speaking sharply to Augustus Pye and putting him on two weeks leave without pay didn't relieve the restlessness that was leaving him with the uncomfortable image of ants spilling down his veins.

The only way he could calm himself and think straight, he'd thought, was if he sat down and worked on the Potter case. So he had occupied himself with writing down every detail of the memories as he saw them in his portable Pensieve.

It hadn't helped.

Draco's fingers twitched on the quill he held, and he dropped it, startled at his lack of control. What on earth was _wrong_ with him? Was he really so shaken by the memories, by the letter, by the circumstance? It was _Potter_ , for Merlin's sake, not the Minister. No matter the amount of prestige he would win for curing Potter, it wasn't worth the loss of his sanity.

His fireplace roared to life, and he took the precious opportunity afforded to him to rearrange his physical features into something more pleasant than the grimace that haunted his lips. He thanked again his foresight for placing his fireplace behind his seat instead of across from it, and stood, turning to face the Floo caller.

'Healer Malfoy,' the Minister said, inclining his head in greeting, and Draco bowed – less out of respect than out of shock. The Minister – calling a Malfoy? It was unheard of, even eight years after the war. The coincidence of his thoughts did not escape him, but he wasn't much in the mood at the moment. 'I wish a quick word – I hope you're free.'

Draco nodded as he came out of his bow, and held his composure when he was affixed with the startlingly sharp gaze of Minister Shacklebolt. 'My time is always open for a call from the Minister,' he said softly.

Shacklebolt's head shook slightly with mirth; another unheard-of occurrence. 'I thank you, and knowing how your time is currently... constrained, I'll make it brief.'

Draco knew instantly what Shacklebolt was calling about. 'But of course,' he said, and waited for the Minister to begin.

There was a long moment where Shacklebolt considered him, before his head nodded once. 'What is Harry Potter's current condition?'

'He is breathing regularly, but he has not awoken,' Draco answered immediately. 'One could think he was only sleeping.'

'I see,' Shacklebolt said gravely. Another moment, and then he said, 'I can see from your expression that you are wondering why I would call after a man who is not Ministry personnel, particularly during Ministry hours.'

'I was considering the notion of asking,' Draco ceded.

'Two reasons, then. First – and foremost – I have known Potter since his fifth year of Hogwarts, and we have been on good terms since the war,' Shacklebolt said simply. 'I was concerned for his well-being. Secondly, and certainly less pressing but equally worrying...' Shacklebolt sighed. 'The reporters for various publications have been hounding the gates and trying to call in favours to get the quote-unquote real story.' A hand appeared among the flames and stroked Shacklebolt's chin.

'You wish to quell certain rumours before they're too blown-up to be swept under the rug?' Draco said, understanding. Many was the time when Lucius had advised Draco to go to the most respectable source for the public answers – they were safest and, more importantly, better believed by the populace.

'Exactly,' Shacklebolt nodded.

'Then you can report that the nature of the curse placed upon him is being studied thoroughly, and he is currently in no danger of physical harm from his caretakers,' Draco said.

Shacklebolt's smile turned wry. 'Yourself, you mean.'

'And no better,' Draco agreed. 'If that will be all, Minister.'

'One favour more.'

'Of course.'

'As I understand it, there are extenuating circumstances that could be used to identify the caster,' Shacklebolt said delicately.

Some subtle and uninvited anger rose behind Draco's eyes and pressed with an unwelcome pressure. 'I have my patient confidentiality code, Minister,' he said, a little sharper than intended.

'You are aware that the Aurors need every piece of information they can get?' Shacklebolt challenged, looking like his own irritation had awakened.

'There is no court in the Wizarding world that would pardon me for breaking that rule of Mind-Healing. Particularly in my branch, where we are privy to the deepest, most secret parts of a person,' Draco said, working to keep his face and voice coolly indifferent. 'I apologise, Minister, but I can be no help in that regard.'

'What, then, if you discover the caster?' Shacklebolt demanded, his voice deeper from anger. 'Or do you care more for your codes than your patients, Healer Malfoy?'

Malfoy snapped, just enough to make his next words more of a freezing snarl than the hiss he wanted. 'I have always taken care of my patients, Minister Shacklebolt, as your niece can attest,' he said, and Shacklebolt flinched. The young girl had found herself the victim of a badly-turned Memory Charm during a heated argument with one of her friends, and the situation could have deteriorated quite quickly had the Minister not called on Draco immediately. That had been one of the turning points in Draco's career, and the source of one of the Orders of Merlin on his wall.

After a moment to acknowledge the flinch, Draco continued on in softer tone. 'Even to the point of breaking several magical laws to heal them. This has been proven time and again. If I discover the identity of the caster, I will ask Mr. Potter for permission before I report any such findings. If that will be all, Minister?'

'Can't you just check the last memory Harry had, and see the caster?'

'I can check,' Draco admitted, 'But it would do no good if Potter merely did not see him. Few users of debilitating curses cast them where the victim could see their faces. And you will still have to wait until Potter awakes, Minister. Good evening.'

Shacklebolt looked dearly as if he would like to say something, but chose instead to end the Floo call with dignity.

Draco rolled his eyes and turned, gathering up the notes of Potter's dreams before leaving the room. He had no desire to remain, and given the stress of the past few days he could be excused leaving for home early.

* * *

_Draco didn't remember when he fell asleep. Surely it was after dinner and the checking of his mail – he remembered being intensely irritated by the various hateful letters and Howlers about him treating Potter before chucking them in the bin, and re-reading his notes yet again. Merlin, it had felt like he was sitting for his Healer exams again._

_But then he had gone to bed, for once too tired to take his potion (intense memory work tended to do that), and this, he supposed, was his price._

_A dream, yes. But too ordered for his normal brand of screaming and pain and red, deep eyes; too mundane. But at the same time extraordinary._

_He and Potter were sitting at a table in some nameless pub, speaking. He himself looked much the same as he always had – even had the same cool, indifferent face he had once practised in the mirror. But Potter..._

_His face was_ alive _, bright and dark by equal turns, mouth moving rapidly in the course of their argument (what else could it be?). Now what looked like a full-throated laugh, now a scowl, now a look of wry, worldly amusement Draco had never thought Potter's face capable of. It was extraordinary not because they were having a conversation – certainly they had done that in school – but because it looked civil, and was taking place in a public arena. Draco couldn't hear the words (wasn't certain he'd want to) but it seemed important, if the intense look constantly flirting with the edge of Potter's expression and the tight set of his own mouth were anything to go by._

_Maybe, maybe not. A non sequitur in his dreams. Surely the least horrifying._

_When Draco awoke, as he did every night, and walked to the window, as he did every night, he found his face free of bruises, even if he couldn't remember the details of the dream. Something to do with Harry Potter... Potter..._

_But no bruises._

_A small mercy._

* * *

Draco opened the door to his office and was immediately bombarded with red – the entire Weasley clan (minus Weasley and Granger) had apparently decided his office was the new gathering place. He managed by a miracle to look unsurprised, but even that was less a miracle than a reflex; he doubted that anything that happened today could be called a _miracle_.

'Healer Malfoy,' Mr. Weasley said, standing; the silver that was threaded through his hair was strange looking, as if someone had painted it in, and there were deep-set wrinkles in his face. 'Pardon us for barging in.'

'Not at all, Mr. Weasley,' Draco said, taking great care to sound dismissive. He swept around the large gathering, feeling their eyes on him; like the younger Weasley, they still had their deep-set mistrust against Malfoys firmly in place, and though his and Granger's had been almost laughably easy to shake off, he doubted he could do so with all of them staring at him.

He sat and steepled his fingers, looking at them all. 'How may I be of service?' He asked, softly, and committed the sight of seven Weasley jaw drops at once to memory. It would be something to laugh about later.

Mr. Weasley recovered first, and even managed to do so with a modicum of grace. Draco wasn't impressed, but colour him... approving. 'We've come to request visitation rights,' he said, and mottled slightly in indignation. 'The guards wouldn't allow us to pass without your permission.'

'Ah, yes,' Draco said, and unlinked his fingers to lay his hands calmly on the desk. 'That is true.'

'Why?' Mrs. Weasley demanded, looking much more heavily affronted than her husband. 'Why can't anyone see Harry?' She sat forward, and glared spectacularly (or would have, if Draco wasn't such a spectacular glare-r himself and thus immune to other's pathetic attempts).

'Because he's in no condition to receive more than two visitors at a time,' Draco said delicately, and waited for the explosion.

When it came, it did not come from the source he was expecting. '"In no condition"?' Ginevra repeated, sounding panicked. 'But the _Prophet_ said that he was only asleep! They said that the curse is being _thoroughly studied_ and that –'

As the young woman continued, Draco had to quash a smile. _It seems that you are right again, Father. Instead of believing the expert, the populace will always believe the leader._

He held up a hand, and she actually fell silent, something that gratified Draco immeasurably. 'Mr. Potter is not asleep, he is in a coma from which he is showing no sign of awakening any time soon.'

A small shriek from Mrs. Weasley he hadn't been expecting; he allowed himself a wince, since that was what everyone else was doing. Then he shook it off; Heaven help him if he ever determined appropriate behaviour from a group of _Weasleys_.

'A _COMA_?' She demanded shrilly. 'The _Prophet_ said nothing of the sort!'

'Then the report must have gotten garbled,' Draco said, biting back a sigh.

George Weasley, who until this moment had spent his time studying Draco's face (uncomfortable but endurable), spoke up. 'Isn't Mungo's supposed to have one of the foremost Mind-Healing experts in the western hemisphere?' he asked, and everyone quieted. Draco had reason to suspect that the man had been to several Mind-Healers himself, after the death of his twin. 'Then shouldn't the studying of the curse be going faster? The way they talk about the man makes it seem that he's God on Earth when it comes to memory magic.'

Draco smiled at that. 'While the compliment is appreciated, even I can't work that fast,' he said, and got to enjoy the simultaneous jaw drop once more. 'Unfortunately, memory magic is an imprecise art. It's possible that the curse that struck Mr. Potter is irreversible. Unlikely,' he added quickly to head off the shriek he could sense about to rip itself from Mrs. Weasley's throat, 'but possible. I assure you that I am working as quickly and as intensively as possible to return Mr. Potter to his normal state.'

'So hold on a bloody second,' Bill Weasley demanded, making both his mother and his younger brother, Percy, wince. ' _You're_ the foremost Mind-Healer in this part of the world?' He scoffed, then added, 'I don't believe it.'

Draco shrugged. 'We all have to be good at something,' he said, letting the insult roll off his back like his father had taught him. In fact, the only person he had never been able to take insults from gracefully was... _Focus_. 'It was merely my luck that it was something that could earn me prestige.'

'Other than using your name?' Charlie Weasley snarled, glaring.

Draco stood. 'I understand that you are here to ask permission to visit Mr. Potter,' he said coldly, and he took only a small amount of pleasure in the flinches that this reminder caused. 'Insulting his caretaker is hardly a way to attain it. Two at a time, and make it brief – one half hour in total. I have work to do. Now, if you would kindly leave my office?'

He shook his wand out of his pocket, and raised an eyebrow when almost all of their hands fled to their own wands. He flicked it, and the door opened; this time, he allowed himself a small, sarcastic smile when they burned in embarrassment. He turned his back as they left, and Summoned the papers that had already piled up in his night-long absence.

He turned again to sit at his desk, and was startled to see George Weasley standing there, watching him again.

'Can I help you?' Draco said, remembering at the last second that this Weasley had been the one to not reach for his wand.

'Yeah, you can,' he said, and sat in one of the chairs that had previously been ignored by the family. 'You can work while I talk,' he said, eyeing the small stack before Draco. 'I know how it piles up.'

Draco blinked in amazement. A Weasley, understanding anything about a Malfoy? News to him; he pulled up his own chair and sat, pulling a quill to himself.

'I'm sorry,' George said abruptly, and Draco almost messed up his signature on a release form. He looked up, and George looked away. 'For my family. They're not particularly – understanding when it comes to Harry.'

Draco, driven to generosity by surprise, said, 'They have known him since his first year of Hogwarts, and he has long been considered a member of your family, as I can recall –'

'That's not it alone,' George cut in, and sat forward. 'They don't understand _Harry_ much, either.'

Draco set his quill down thoughtfully. 'And you think I need to know this... _why_?'

'I was speaking to Ron and Hermione yesterday,' George said, and Draco nodded. 'You received a letter from Harry?' Draco nodded again. 'May I see it?'

A third nod, and then the letter was in George's hands. Draco returned to the paperwork, and finished another release form and was partway through the final evaluation for a new Healer, Admontious Haggerthorn, when George spoke again.

'It's definitely not faked,' George said, and set the letter on the desk. 'So you're trying to find the man who did it?'

'Or woman,' Draco corrected. 'According to Granger, there was a stalker for a period of time.'

George nodded, then fell into silence. Draco chanced a question after a few moments.

'Was he at all different in the past four months?'

George's eyes sharpened, and he sat forward again. 'What do you know?' he demanded.

'Only that until four months ago Mr. Potter was normal, per se,' Draco said calmingly. _That_ was almost stranger than the rest of it put together – trying to calm a Weasley was not exactly something he had been prepared for.

'And your methods of investigating?'

...Draco had to admit, the Weasley twin was much cleverer than he had previously thought. 'By systematically searching his memories for clues.'

'And was he aware of this when he asked for your help?' George continued, his face hard.

'Most likely not,' Draco admitted. 'But after eight years, it should have reached a point where I would be like any other Healer – a particularly talented one, yes, but just a –'

'But you're _not_ ,' George interrupted with a glare. 'You're still _Draco Malfoy_ , and to him that means –' George clamped his mouth shut, before opening it again to sigh.

Draco just _knew_ that if he had a tic, it would be all Potter's fault for dragging the Weasleys' into Draco's life. 'It would be pleasant if, just once, I would be free from the reputation my school-boy self had,' he said, and George flinched.

'That wasn't it,' George said, then scrutinised Draco in a most discomfiting manner. '...If you're searching his memories, then you'll find out soon enough,' he said finally, and avoided Draco's eye. 'Just – what are you looking for, exactly, in his memories?'

Draco pondered what, exactly, was safe to say; then he finally decided to hell with it, as it seemed that George was one of the few Weasleys on Potter's side at the moment. _It feels strange to look out for him, even if he's my patient._ 'There are certain kinds of memories that I can key into,' he started. 'Certain emotions that show up more virulently than others. So I'm searching his stressful and dissatisfied ones, in hopes that they'll have the most clues.'

George Weasley, it seemed, never ran out of questions. 'Is that all you're doing?' he demanded, and sat forward. 'Don't you need to know Harry better to truly understand them?'

He stood abruptly, and turned. 'When you think you've gotten all you can,' he said without turning back, 'Check his happy memories, his relaxed ones, his satisfied ones.'

Then he muttered something like 'Merlin knows you'll get an eyeful', and then he swept out of the office, saying another thing about clearing out the Weasleys so that Draco could work.

Draco, however, had been caught off-guard by the last query, and was far too busy contemplating it to pay attention to such trivialities.

His happy memories... yes, they would certainly give Draco a better hold on the situation... but did he really want to know so much about Potter? It felt unnecessarily intrusive when he had no reason other than wanting to know the situation better.

He hit on a compromise in his head before reaching for a quill to finish his neglected paperwork. If he couldn't understand his findings from the other memories he was examining, he would check those memories to see if it set the pieces in place.

Of, course, that left the question of why he cared about intruding on Potter's privacy when it was his job to do so, but he could lock that in the same place where all his strange thoughts about Potter were currently being locked.

_Focus on the goal, Draco. Don't let yourself be pulled aside._

* * *

'Hello, Mr. Potter,' Draco said upon entering the room, shutting the door behind him with a small click and locking it with an impromptu flick of his wand. The Weasleys had indeed been cleared out by George Weasley, but had left their marks all over the room; conjured seats and in the wastebasket a pile of used tissue (courtesy, he suspected, of Mrs. Weasley.)

He Vanished the tissue with a small snort of disgust, and turned to Potter, casting the diagnostic spells for the first time that morning.

His heart rate was fast, the same as if he'd been sorely startled or anxious, and his dream wave patterns were wavering too quickly to be called dreams. Rather a fragmented whirl of images, a painful and disorienting experience for anyone, much less for someone who couldn't remember anything.

Draco summoned a Calming Draught from the small cupboard to the right of the door, and opened Potter's lips. To his shock, Potter's teeth were clamped.

He struggled to force the potion down Potter's throat all the same, wondering furiously how Potter could be in a coma and still retain enough mobility to clench his teeth. It shouldn't be physically possible. As far as he could tell, the coma was caused by the fall and not the curse; if it was caused by the curse, then that meant –

'Bollocks, Potter, don't you start this on me!' Draco snapped furiously, and as if that had been the command Potter had been waiting on, the teeth unclenched and the potion slid down his throat without further resistance.

Draco stared, even as he closed Potter's mouth and set the vial aside; that had been a thoroughly unnerving event.

He scowled at the door as he moved around the bed in order to begin a cursory examination of the curse scars, long overdue. _That is the last time I allow the Weasleys in. He must have been overly excited by their presence, and I'm not losing this opportunity because a bunch of blood traitors decided they_ had _to see their little pet monkey._

Frustration was seeping into his thoughts, and it was evident in the way his hands were shaking – or was that fright? Merlin knew he hadn't been irritated, thrown off balance, shocked, and unnerved in such quick succession since his school days.

In any case, it was a few moments of deep breathing before Draco could look at the scars objectively.

Predictably, they offered nothing in the way of understanding; two Xs, one larger than the other, and –

Draco frowned. He was certain that there had been three on the evening of Potter's arrival.

A touch of his wand to his temple, and the memory flooded his vision; yes, there were three Xs, a cluster instead of the two he saw when he blinked the memory away.

Where could the third have gone?

_Unless – no, you idiot, who would be stupid enough to use that curse, of all the ones they could use to wipe a mind, no one would use –_

A series of detecting spells did nothing, and it was with a distinct air of frustration that Draco raised his wand and performed the necessary incantations.

The bubbles that bloomed forth were orange in nature alone – with the numbers he remembered from the day before, he would be working late as it was without having the pressure of the other bubbles staring him in the face.

Then, feeling stupid for not having done it sooner, he cast the incantation that gave a short-phrase summary of the contents of the memories.

To be fair, it was a spell he used rarely; often he would only have to examine one memory in order to determine the actual incantation used (as family testimony tended to be garbled with fear or anxiety for their loved ones), and then he could cure them without much further efforts. But the Summary Spell was used for documents that he wanted to read more often than it was used for memories, so he _supposed_ he could have been forgiven for his lapse in memory. At least he had remembered it. Eventually.

One by one, white-coloured words scrawled themselves above the bubbles, and Draco examined them in turn.

He numbered them with a curling movement of his wand, and they obligingly flew into order.

He Summoned parchment and a Quick-Notes Quill, and the familiar sound of scratching filled the room as he intoned:

'First: Conversation with Mrs. Weasley, second: Encounter with Captain, third: Quidditch Practice,' then a pause as he waited for the fourth and fifth to finish. 'Fourth: Little Whinging, Surrey –' a Muggle neighbourhood if ever he had heard one, 'And fifth: Knockturn Alley – what in the name of Merlin's trousers was he doing there?'

Malfoy realised he had said the last aloud, and glared pointedly at the Quick-Notes Quill until it sullenly scribbled out his comment. He banished it to the drawer in his desk, and brought the parchment to himself, studying it before folding it and placing it in his pocket.

'Lovely,' he said, glaring. 'First the Weasels invade my ward, and now they're invading my mind.'

He clamped his mouth shut in shock almost before he finished the sentence; something was _indeed_ terribly wrong with him if he was saying such things into the open air instead of into the privacy of his own mind.

He resisted the urge to tack on 'imbecile' and snatched the first memory out of the air.

* * *

Draco found himself in the one room he'd never thought he would ever enter: the Weasley's kitchen. It was round and patchwork, with a short table and a multitude of mismatched chairs crowded around it; various cleaning utensils flew around, performing household chores with an efficiency he was loath to admit, and various pans were steaming or bubbling merrily.

He looked around curiously and conceded that, for all its shabbiness, it was at least _clean_.

Mrs. Weasley and Potter entered the room from the front door, sunlight streaming into the room in great lazy swirls of light that brought in the sweet tang of mid-May, and Draco winced. There was a falsely cheery look painted all over Mrs. Weasley's face, so bright and hopeful that Draco seriously considered its veracity before rejecting on the grounds of the strained grin that accompanied it.

Potter, frankly, wasn't even trying, seemingly content to let his displeasure radiate around him like a halo, if the faint tinge of orange sparking at the edge of Draco's peripheral vision was anything to go by. There was a dark edge to his mouth, set as it was in a straight line that looked strange in the curves of Potter's face, and Draco stifled a laugh as he realised how much Potter looked like Professor McGonagall.

Then he remembered that he was in a memory, and let the mirth out.

The two had sat down by the time he had finished, but neither had spoken beyond Mrs. Weasley's smiley 'Would you like a cuppa, Harry, dear?' and Potter's terse 'No, thank you.'

Draco watched the ensuing moments of silence with interest. He of course noted Mrs. Weasley's shifting and fiddling with her wand as she searched desperately for something to say; but then again, he wasn't focussed on her. If she had Transfigured her own cup of tea to a small dragon, Draco wouldn't have noticed for the world.

No, he was focussed on Potter, whose eyes were darting into every corner and every shadow as if expecting an ambush. His hand wasn't on his wand, but more than once, Draco saw his hand twitch with longing, as if wishing to shake his wand out of his sleeve. And, perhaps, most interestingly of all, his entire body was tense and his face was sour, as if he'd been tricked into coming here. Or coerced, perhaps; Draco may be willing to admit that their house was clean, but never would a Malfoy ever call a Weasley clever.

...Except the twins, but as one had gotten himself blown up, anyway, and the other was running a joke shop, neither of which was particularly profitable or constructive, he had his doubts.

Mrs. Weasley set her tea down delicately (as delicately as a woman that size could, Draco thought reflectively) and said with a smile, 'So... how have you been, Harry?'

Draco resolved never to say that to Potter, _ever_ , on account of how the man's eyes narrowed and his fists clenched like he longed to punch the table. 'I believe you know quite well, Mrs. Weasley,' Potter said through clenched teeth. His right hand shifted, and for a moment Draco thought with a tinge of shock that he was about to shake his wand out and hex the woman; but, no, he was just pulling out an envelope.

Draco recalled how irritating Mrs. Weasley had been in his office only an hour or so ago, and mentally congratulated Potter on his growth in the 'restraining oneself from hexing innocents' department.

'After all,' Potter was continuing, and Draco forced himself to pay attention ( _you're on the job, you prat_ ), 'You knew where I was living, and my current state of affairs. Including my...' he shook his head, and Draco noted a flicker of mortification before it was moulded into purpose. 'My love life.'

Draco was almost certain he heard Potter add under his breath 'Or the lack thereof,' but his attention had been caught by Mrs. Weasley's face.

It would have been amusing, perhaps, in other circumstances to see her face crack from the forced cheerfulness and the shards dissolve into helpless anger; but here it was beyond pathetic – it was pitiable, the way she clenched her own fists and stood, as if her meagre height would somehow help her.

'Frankly, Harry, I don't see why this is a problem at all,' she said, her whole body quivering (Draco found _that_ amusing, at least). 'You know and I know that while it isn't _wrong_ , per se, it's certainly inappropriate with regard to your station.'

'Excuse me?' Potter said, and for a moment looked genuinely baffled. 'My _what_?'

'Your _station_ , Harry, your station,' Mrs. Weasley said, looking a bit more in her element. She even sat again. 'You're a famous Quidditch player – best in the world! – and that means there are some difficult choices in terms of _image_.'

Draco had no idea what she was talking about, but for the first time in his life he wondered if perhaps the Weasleys weren't such massive blood traitors as previously thought.

'My image,' Harry said, too shocked to have anything but a deadpan tone.

'Yes, Harry,' Mrs. Weasley said, and smiled beatifically. 'Your image, which is why we can't have these silly little obsessions hanging around.'

Draco braced himself for the magical fireworks of the century, but was sorely disappointed when Potter merely stood and glared. As impressive as that glare might be, Draco had expected a bit more fire and brimstone.

'Silly little obsessions,' Potter repeated. Then there was a twist to his mouth that would have been called ugly on anyone else but only made Potter's eyes brighter and more bitter. 'Mrs. Weasley, I came here for one reason and one reason only. I will not read any further letters from you, or anyone else you wish to send them through. I will not have my life meddled with by a woman who still thinks of me as a sixteen year old. And I will _not_ ,' This part, Draco genuinely expected fire to burst from behind Potter's eyes, ' _Not,_ marry your daughter. Am I understood?'

'She loves you, Harry!' Mrs. Weasley said, sounding genuinely anguished; in a way, this merely magnified her pathetic dreams, but in another, Draco wished he was anywhere but here. 'She has since she first met you –'

'She doesn't even know me, Mrs. Weasley, and that's a fact,' Potter snapped with unnatural coldness. 'The engagement has been broken for six years, and that should have been enough time for you _both_ to get over it. The sooner, the better,' he added, and then turned. 'I'm going before I have to face her, too.'

'Harry James Potter, don't you turn your back on me!' Mrs. Weasley snarled, and her voice was so high Draco heard a dish crack behind him. 'Do you have any idea how much it hurts her to see you traipsing off with these floozies you've stolen from team-mates?'

Harry froze, and turned. 'What did you say?' he whispered, and Draco realised he looked like a man given a second hope.

'You're obsessed with stealing these women from their former lovers, and it hurts Ginny so much she can't stand it!' Mrs. Weasley said. Draco turned, eyebrow arched. That _was_ a change since school.

But instead of the anger he'd expected, or sorrow, or mortification, Potter was braced against the chair, laughing. Laughing so hard and so deep that it sounded as if he never took a breath, even when his mouth moved in the movements of one. Draco stared in fascination, and a ripple of curiosity shimmied down his spine. Did Potter laugh like that all the time?

'You _believe_ the papers?' Potter managed eventually, looking up, his eyes bright with relief and merriment. They flickered like green flames as he added, 'That's what you think I'm obsessed with?'

He turned, still chuckling slightly, though now it sounded bitter. 'They're idiots who leave good men because they're dazzled by my story,' he said. Mrs. Weasley was holding her breath. 'I've never dated any of them. I haven't dated anyone since Ginny.'

Draco winced; six years without sex, it sounded like. It was a wonder that Potter didn't go and fall off his broom because he fainted from repressed sexual tension.

Mrs. Weasley _shone_ , now, and Draco knew the words before they spilled out. 'You're still in love with Ginny! I kn –'

'No,' Potter cut through forcefully, without turning. The laughter was gone. 'No, I'm not. I'm in love with someone else, as it happens.'

The look of devastation on Mrs. Weasley's face unsettled Draco's stomach, and he looked away, trying to focus on Potter. He couldn't keep that up, either, so he focussed on the table. At least the table wasn't horribly overemotional.

He felt the edges of his vision go blurry as the sound of Potter's footprints began to retreat and Mrs. Weasley burst into tears.

The unsettled feeling wouldn't dissipate.

* * *

It was like opening his eyes, this time; no falling, no stumbling, just a comfortable slip back into reality. Draco preferred that to the other re-entrances he had faced while working with Potter, though there was an off feeling in the air when he actually opened his eyes.

The bubble returned to Potter without a command on Draco's part, which was unusual but not uncommon, and he recorded via the Recording Charm what had happened, so that he could take physical notes later. That also was normal.

What was decidedly _not_ was that he turned around and both Weasley and Granger were watching him solemnly from their conjured seats by Potter's side.

Draco sucked in a deep breath, but managed to keep the startled cry inside; as it was, he made a small _heeek_ noise that made Weasley's lips twitch, and that was _not_ on.

'Can I help you two?' he demanded darkly, glaring and hoping (privately, of course) that they would burst into obliging flame. Fair trade for a heart-attack. To his surprise (no, call it shock, he'd already _been_ surprised), he realised he wasn't glaring as hard as he'd meant to, and no matter how he tried to glare fiercer, he couldn't.

'Is that how you're studying his memories?' Granger said. Her look of solemnity had that edge of curiosity he had expected from her, and a strange light in her eyes that he thought was what was there when she read a book.

It was still there, however, when she glanced at Potter.

'Yes,' Draco said tersely, and looked to the other memories.

'That row with Mum...' Weasley started, and Draco turned back, eyebrow cocked. Weasley had apparently decided, however, that wasn't where he wanted to start, and said, 'We talked to George, and hurried over here. You were in the middle of the memory, though, and 'Mione said it wouldn't be a good idea to shake you out.'

Draco winced, remembering for a moment the time a patient's mother had tried that and trapped Draco in the memory for two days, before sweeping the thought back into his mind. 'I appreciate the forethought,' he said, and turned back.

Weasley was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and clenched and unclenched his fists before bursting out, 'Do you know yet?'

Granger rolled her eyes and muttered 'Ron _, honestly_ ,' and Draco shook his head.

'I have some theories as to who cast the curse, but as of the moment, no evidence to base any of them on,' he said, and sucked back another wave of shock when he realised his voice was _apologetic_. There was something wrong with him, direly wrong, if he was apologetic to a _Weasley_.

But Weasley was shaking his head. 'Not that,' he said, waving a hand, 'I'm certain you'll find _that_. Do you know what he's obsessed with?'

Draco blinked as Hermione sighed. 'Ron, you're _hopeless_ ,' she said, and subtly stepped on his foot as she said, 'We've, er, well, been trying for months to find out, and we were hoping that you'd know?'

Draco looked at her impassively until she squirmed, and then calmly said, 'Liar.'

'Excuse me?' Granger said, doing a very good job of looking affronted.

'That was a lie,' Draco explained politely, 'Hence the moniker "liar".' He nodded thoughtfully as she spluttered and Weasley got steadily redder in the face. 'George said something similar –'

'Oi!' Weasley said, standing and abruptly pale. 'Where do you get off on calling George by his first – _ow!_ '

'You're Weasley. I can't call everyone Weasley, then.' Draco rolled his eyes, taking care to look bored, despite the smirk that wanted to skirt along his lips at the no-longer-subtle foot-stepping. 'Why is it so important that I understand this obsession of Potter's?'

And then it was as if someone had cast a Silencing Charm on the whole room.

He watched curiously as Weasley's face got steadily redder, and Granger's got steadily whiter, as if the blood in her body was fleeing to Weasley's. Interesting thought, that; he wasn't usually so poetic.

'It's not important – per se –' Granger said, then looked helplessly at her husband.

'It's something he'd want you to know, if you're trying to heal him,' Weasley said, and despite the redness of his face it was unusually stoic.

Draco's eyes flitted to Potter himself. Still looking as if he was asleep, there was faint movement beneath his eyelids, indicating dreams – of what, Draco was unsure, but the circles beneath his eyes had receded completely, and there was no longer a peculiar tightness around his mouth that Draco only now realised had been present.

'That row you just saw...' Weasley said, and Draco's attention was jerked from Potter to him like a string snapping, 'That was the last time my family's talked to him, other than me and George.'

'Not true,' Draco said without thinking, and then realised he had to continue when Weasley struck him with a stare that almost physically hurt. 'He met Ginevra in Diagon Alley recently.'

Weasley looked struck, but Granger nodded thoughtfully, some colour returning to her cheeks. 'We live in Diagon Alley, and that would explain why the last time we saw him, he was fuming,' she thought aloud. 'I'm just surprised he called on her.'

'He didn't,' Draco said, and was hit with Granger's stare as well. 'They ran into each other, or she sought him out, but it wasn't willing on Potter's part.'

Weasley rolled his eyes. 'Bet Mum put her up to it,' he said, and sat back in his chair. 'She's been trying to get me and George to talk to him for weeks, trying to "reconcile".' He took a deep breath. 'Drove us mad enough that we cut off contact, too. She tried to drag me along this morning, but luckily I had to go in and return a report.'

Granger smiled faintly, and looked to Draco. Her face hardened, however, when she caught sight of his face. 'What is it?'

'There was someone following him,' Draco admitted.

Weasley frowned. 'That's weird,' he said. 'That Beater's girlfriend stopped following him around early last month. Harry visited us two weeks ago.'

'So there's a second stalker?' Draco said.

'It might be the caster of the curse,' Granger thought aloud. She stared hard at Draco before saying, 'Do you have notes or something of the memories?'

'I do, but you cannot see them,' Draco said, and Weasley stood again.

'Why the bloody hell not?'

' _Ron!_ '

'Because of the confidentiality codes set down for Mind-Healers,' he said, staring at Weasley until he started to colour again. 'And if I will not give those to the Minister, I will not give them to you.'

Weasley protested loudly, ' _We're_ his next of kin –'

'Is he dead, Weasley?' Draco said quietly, and Weasley froze. 'No? Well, sadly, that appears to be the only thing that obviates the confidentiality codes.' Eyebrow arched, he waited for Weasley's response.

Amusingly, he sat down, red-faced and mumbling something about 'uppity gits who don't know their place in the world'. Draco almost smiled; it appeared he had won that round.

'Now, if you two don't mind,' he said, 'I'm going to try to finish these memories by the end of the day. However, in the interest of satisfying the Minister's curiosity...' Draco rolled his eyes, and pointed his wand at Potter. 'I'm summoning his last memory,' he said sharply to Weasley, whose hand had fled to his own wand. 'We'll see if he saw the caster.'

Granger nodded, and they watched as Draco murmured a location spell, then added, ' _Anima, demum memoria_.'

Another bubble bloomed forth, glowing a curious cross between purple and green. Draco, not bothering to wait around for Granger's comments or Weasley's questions, Summoned the bubble to his hand.

* * *

They were flying. Draco could discern that easily from the sensation of air, but he could not figure out where his body was – probably because Potter couldn't – but he knew he was looking for the Snitch, and he had to watch out, because _he_ was out to get him, and it wasn't paranoia, it was terrifying truth, and he couldn't _see_ – why couldn't he see –?

And then Draco realised that the field was silent, and there was only blackness, and then a whisper.

' _Conjungo anima_ ,' came the silky incantation, unidentifiable as to sex or age, and then there was a falling, and the quiet sound of Potter's last conscious thought, _Thank Merlin I sent... that... letter..._

* * *

Draco stumbled backward, sucking in deep breaths, heedless of how he looked to Weasley or Granger. Fuck them, frankly; it had been a long time since he had entered a memory so fierce it forced Draco to live through the owner's emotions and thoughts. But he had certainly got what he was looking for.

He became aware of two hands on his shoulders, holding him up; he looked, startled, to see both Granger and Weasley holding him up, shock written all over their faces. Draco shook them off and stood, trying to curb his own breathing.

'The Immix Curse,' he said, and checked Potter's wrists. He should have known. The Xs were fairly common curse scars, but he couldn't think of another memory-loss curse that had them. But he hadn't wanted to think that someone was so stupid as to have actually used –

Granger gasped behind him. 'But there's no cure for that!' she all but wailed, and there was a startled noise from Weasley.

'No cure?' he demanded, and without warning Draco was spun and faced with a furious Weasley. 'Is he just doomed to live as a – as a vegetable?'

Granger seemed to be chanting under her breath, and when Draco listened, he was astonished to hear large tracts of the beginner's _Memory Curses: A Magical Compendium_ textbook spilling from her lips.

'There is a cure!' he said loudly, over Weasley's rants and Granger's muttering, and absolute silence fell.

Both stared at him, and he sighed, shaking himself out of Weasley's grip. 'That's why I'm rather well known,' he said, and looked hard at both of them until they took their seats again. 'I found a cure for the Immix Curse, rare though it is.'

'What is it?' Granger demanded, and Draco smiled wanly.

'Something I've been unwittingly doing since Potter came under my care,' he said, and when neither Granger nor Weasley (not that he'd expected it from him) showed any signs of understanding, he rolled his eyes. 'I have to experience his memories – the way I'm doing it now, not in the way I would if I used a Penseive.'

Granger's eyes lit up with understanding. 'Let me see his wrists,' she said bossily, and Draco stepped out of her way. She looked at them for all of three seconds, then looked at him. 'There was a third, wasn't there?'

'Indeed,' Draco nodded.

'So you've experienced all of the relevant memories for one of the categories,' she said, as if Draco didn't already know. 'So when you finish with these, another X will disappear.'

'Correct, Granger,' Draco said, seizing upon the opportunity she had just presented. 'Which means I need to get started.' Eyebrow arched, he waited for her to get the message.

She apparently didn't get the one he wanted, as she chose to sit down and nothing else. 'We'll watch Harry for you,' she said, and then settled back in her chair, watching curiously.

...Well, fine then. His father had more than once proclaimed Draco an exhibitionist; of course, that had been directed at his choice in career, but that was neither here, nor there.

He reached out for the second bubble, labelled 'Encounter with Captain', and took a deep breath. Today looked to be a long day.

* * *

Several hours later, Draco retreated to his office and locked the door to try and gather his thoughts. As much as he'd tried, he just couldn't get through more than four memories in one day. It didn't help that the last conscious memory of Potter's had been so confusing and heavy and seemed to sink straight into Draco's heart as if it was a memory of his own –

He cut of the thought with forced ease, and sank into his chair. It had been a long, tiring day, and that was that. There was no need for the memories to affect him so badly; nor was there any need for the increased sense of companionship that came from Granger and Weasley. They seemed to know something Draco did not, and it was frankly driving Draco mad trying to figure it out. It also didn't help that whatever they knew seemed to make them _grateful_ to him, or something very like it; that was a phenomena that would need to cease as soon as possible.

He glanced at the Orders of Merlin on the walls, and smirked. Well, the gratitude could stay, but the companionship would _definitely_ have to go. A Malfoy was a Malfoy, and Malfoys did not consort with those lesser than themselves.

He brought the recordings from the day out of his mind, and cast a complicated charm that would turn them into neat, precise notes. While he waited, he looked at the portraits hung on his walls.

Sir Poppymont had a habit of visiting the museums that held his portraits and not returning for days; but in his exhaustion, Draco hadn't noticed that Phineas Nigellus Black had returned – and, indeed, was watching him with a look of hungry curiosity.

'Hello, Phineas,' Draco said, and the man inclined his head in greeting.

'I have heard the most interesting news, young master,' Phineas said in that bored tone that always conveyed an equal proportion of interest and distaste. Many was the time Draco had tried to learn it, but it hadn't been in his voice's range. 'It seems that you are treating Harry Potter.'

'I am,' Draco confirmed, and a gleam entered Phineas' eyes.

'Interesting... interesting...' he studied Draco for a moment. 'I've been visiting one of my portraits.'

Draco's eyebrow rose. ' _One_ of your portraits?' he repeated. 'I was under the impression you only had the two.' Something about Phineas' pronouncement seemed off, but it could have been only a mist–

'The frame you own is merely the most recent,' Phineas sniffed, as if offended that Draco didn't know the entire history of his paintings. 'I have one in Hogwarts and another in the ancient house of Black.'

Draco's eyebrow lifted again.

'The current home of Harry Potter.'

His other eyebrow rose to join the first.

' _Potter_ lives in the Black Manor?' Draco asked, affronted. Potter was a _half-blood_ , and not closely related to the Blacks at all (of course, all pure-blood families were related in some way, but that wasn't the _point_. Potter was a _half-blood_.)

'Well, the last surviving member of the Black family, Sirius Black,' and Phineas' moue of distaste showed exactly what he thought about _that_ , 'Was Potter's godfather. Were you not aware of that fact?'

'Vaguely,' Draco said. And he _had_ been vaguely aware, but as at the time it would have been relevant he had been rather preoccupied with other things, it had never _really_ entered into his conscious mind.

'So, when Sirius died, he left the house and all Black heirlooms to Potter,' Phineas finished with a sniff, clearly displeased at the reminder. 'Including one of my frames.'

'I see,' Draco said, insulted that they hadn't gone to _him_ , the last male member of the line of Black (technically speaking).

'So I was visiting the other portraits in the home, and they apparently have some _delectable_ titbits on Potter's living style.' Phineas looked heavily amused, and Draco resisted a smile; Phineas, for all his posturing and pompous sense of self – which was deserved, but still – was a terrible gossip. 'Would you like to hear?'

Another time, this opportunity would have been exactly what Draco needed to perk himself up, but instead when he opened his mouth he heard the words, 'I'm afraid not, Phineas. I _do_ have a sense of propriety, I'm afraid, and with Potter as my patient, it would be a bit beyond the pale.'

He had to work hard to conceal his own surprise, but Phineas looked too preoccupied with his own to pay attention to Draco.

'Another time, then,' Phineas said, sounding disappointed, and stalked out the side of his portrait – clearly off to share his gossip with another, possibly at Hogwarts, possibly here.

Draco wondered why, exactly, Phineas had decided to tell him this now; it seemed, he decided as he reached for his jacket, that the entire universe had decided to taunt him today, and that was the most logical explanation.

He didn't even understand _how_ he was being taunted, but as he left the hospital and prepared to Apparate, he wondered if that mattered at all to the universe.

* * *

Dringa appeared in his study when he called, and bowed low before looking at him. 'What can Dringa be doing for Master Malfoy, sir?' she asked, ears quivering slightly.

'How is Mr. Potter's owl doing?' he asked, and she seemed to brighten.

'Oh, Mr. Potter's owl is doing very well, Master Malfoy, very well indeed!' she said. 'He is hunting again, and the wing is perfectly healed – even the feathers are unbroken and black again!' She smiled and bobbed in another bow.

Draco's eyebrow rose. 'Were they not black when he arrived?'

Dringa's long nose bent against the floor as she bowed. 'No, Master, they were charmed grey.' She bobbed her head. 'The charm made the owl molt too early, Master – Mr. Potter didn't do a very good job, Master, and it hurt the owl.'

'Perhaps he didn't have the time to do it properly,' Draco said, wondering how far Potter had had to go in order to send him the message.

'Perhaps, Master. I hope so.' Dringa bowed again. 'Is there anything Master Malfoy will be –'

Suddenly, a loud crash against the window; Draco and Dringa looked up, shocked, to see a small owl readying itself to bash against the window again, appearing for all the world to be hooting delightedly.

Dringa rushed over to open the window, and in her absence Draco tried to calculate how much respect would be lost if she turned around and saw him bashing his head against the desk. In the end it was too high a price to pay, and when Dringa turned around he settled for a pinch of the bridge of his nose.

'It has a letter, Master,' she said, scurrying over and placing it in his outstretched hand.

'Thank you,' he said absently, then winced. Dringa was staring at him in awe; rarely did a Malfoy patriarch stoop to thanking his subordinates, if ever (Lucius certainly never had). But it was too late for damage control. 'You're dismissed, he said roughly, and she disappeared, leaving the owl to hoot loudly and fly around the room. A Silencing Charm ended _that_ nuisance, and he settled down to read.

_Malfoy –_

_I apologise for the rather mad owl – my own is currently at a healer's for a broken wing, and no matter how many times I tell Ron to get a new one, he won't be parted with the feathery thing._

_I have researched the Immix Curse before (for one of my legal cases), and I've come across an interesting footnote in one of my older texts. I understand that you might already know of this condition of the Immix Curse, but I felt responsible to bring it to your attention in case you weren't aware._

_The Immix Curse requires the attempting Healer to experience the cursed's most unpleasant memories from the time of their last 'soul-definition', as I'm certain you already knew, seeing as you practically wrote the book yourself._

Draco, who had long pegged the writer to be Granger, was almost flattered by the admittance that she thought him as clever as she. He _was_ , of course, but she had always seemed to hold herself in higher esteem than her peers.

_A soul-definition is a point in time where some crucial part of the soul's makeup is changed or realised – something else I'm aware you knew. But the footnote I found might make you think twice about what you're attempting to do. I wish I could make you promise that despite the dangers you would continue to treat Harry, but I'll have to let the threat of the hatred of the Wizarding world do it for me._

Draco winced; a nice, timely reminder that if he fucked this up, he would never be able to hold his head up in public again. He'd had enough of that for one lifetime, thank you very much.

_If the cursed doesn't trust the Healer to see their soul-definition and the Healer tries to force it, the patient will sicken and die irreversibly. And I don't know if Harry trusts you that much._

_Perhaps Ron or I should experience that instead?_

_Hermione Weasley-Granger_

Draco reached for a piece of parchment and a quill, shaking his head. Granger still thought herself the most qualified to deal with anything to do with Harry Potter; but Draco had something she did not, a small promise inked on parchment in a harried hand, delivered by a charmed owl.

_I need someone I can trust._

And while Draco wasn't certain why he believed in those words so intensely, he knew that he believed in them, and that was that.

_Mrs. Weasley-Granger,_

_Your correspondence was well-intentioned, but unnecessary. I was indeed aware of the strictures of the Immix Curse, and have taken necessary steps to ensure Mr. Potter's safety. A few more days should be sufficient._

_Healer Malfoy_.

He gave the folded letter to the mad owl and set it out into the night. He watched its tiny form disappear, feather by feather, into the darkness, and exhaled quietly; Potter was indeed going to cause him more stress than any other patient, but it would be worth it in the end. The benefits of being the Healer to cure Potter were too great for him to fold now, no matter how trying Potter's acquaintances were and no matter how strange his life was becoming under Potter's (unconscious) influence.

He wondered idly what massive change could have come over Potter, but then set the thought aside. He would find out on the morrow, and that would have to be enough.


	3. Rattling

* * *

**Ars Memoria**

**3\. Rattling**

* * *

_He was sick of dreams. Dreamless Sleep Potion was useless, as were mind-healing charms and every cure known to Wizardingkind. He would just have to grit his teeth and bear it, he knew, but he hated them – he hated the twisted swirl of uneasiness that clouded every one of his dream movements, hated the low growl and arching snarl that seemed to be the only sound night after night, indecipherable._

_He_ hated _not being in control._

_Taunting faces swam before his eyes, sickly green and burning orange, nauseating in their oily, eddying nature. He tried, again and again, to sweep the dreams aside with his bare hands, but they returned, aching in their illness._

_Let me go, Draco commanded, let me go, he chanted, but what good was it? How could he have lost control of what was supposed to be his last sanctuary – his mind?_

_He pounded his fists against the walls, feeling his knuckles split, the warm current of his own blood (_ God, I hate the taste, why can I taste it? _)burning down his skin, and an image of Potter, lying on his bed, empty and not waking, burned, too._

_He awoke, finally, and pulled his fist from his mouth where it had deadened his sobs. He spat the blood from his tongue._

_Disgusting._

* * *

Draco opened the door to Potter's room, his knuckles still sore even thought they'd been healed with a prod of his wand. His dreams were getting worse, and if they continued to do so they would begin to affect his work. Nothing was allowed that; he'd simply need to spend his free time devising a stronger Dreamless Sleep Potion. His Potion-making talents hadn't fled him in the years between Hogwarts and now; he would have to apply them again, that was all.

Potter lay, peaceful and silent, amid the morning bustle of the hospital; a Healer checked his vital signs under Draco's scrutinising eye and renewed the Aliment Charm on his stomach before departing. He was a new Healer in the ward, a good, trustworthy man by the name of Admontious Haggerthorn, who went by the nickname Monty. He was a kind man, with a great love for his family (two children, no wife) and a love of Quidditch that almost rivalled it.

Draco liked him, though he would never say as much; it was evident in the way he assigned him the more difficult tasks, ones that required skill and logic versus brute power. Ravenclaws had never had any great rivalry with Slytherin, though – it was little wonder they got along.

Haggerthorn smiled cheerfully as he left, and Draco returned the gesture with a short nod. Then he turned to Potter, and recalled the memories of yesterday.

They jumbled together, telling a story that he didn't have all the pieces to, yet. The 'encounter with Captain' had only showed the Captain of Puddlemere United rowing with Potter loudly on the pitch over Potter's "inattentiveness". 'Quidditch practice' just proved the Captain right, as Potter snarled, trying to keep his mind in the game. His visit to 'Little Whinging, Surrey' had been downright uncomfortable to watch – sitting down with a large, portly man, his thin, horsey wife and their son trying to stuff too many sandwiches in his mouth at once and checking in with them.

Perhaps, most strangely, was the cold March morning, under the label of 'Knockturn Alley', where Potter went in search of a localised Forgetfulness potion. Illegal because of the side effects, even Draco didn't know where to look for the thing; Potter, too, walked way empty-handed and scowling.

Draco shook them away, and looked to Potter, who was sleeping peacefully under a beam of sunlight. For the second time in as many days, Draco found his hand laying across Potter's cool brow, but this time he did not remove it. He only stood there, thinking.

Potter was displaying none of the signs of distrust that Granger had feared, but that didn't mean he would let Draco see his soul-definition because of a letter and a lack of hostility for eight years. Draco wasn't even sure that he trusted himself to see it and not be affected by it.

Other questions burned in his mind, as well. Even Draco, disconnected from the world as he was, knew that Potter was devoted to his game – if not more so since he had joined Puddlemere some four years ago. Had the stalker or assailant so messed with his head that he was losing his intense focus?

And what would make goody-goody Harry 'Chosen' Potter seek out an illegal potion? What was so terrible that he had to forget it at all costs?

 _Probably a piece of bad fan mail, maybe forced him through a life re-evaluation_ , Draco thought sensibly, but it was still a short while before he could banish the thoughts, step away and speak the necessary spells to draw out the soul-definition.

It came, slowly, stubbornly, but it came; Draco watched it emerge, tentative as a bird from an egg. The sphere burst free with a sudden paroxysm of courage, but backed away from Draco's questing fingers. He breathed in. Breathed out.

Stepped away. As if in response to his silent request, it rose, wobbling slightly. It hovered, suspicious, over Potter's heart, as bright an indigo as he'd ever seen; the colour was so vibrant, as a matter of fact, that Draco stepped still further away. This time, the distance was not a request for trust.

He sucked in a breath again, and scowled. 'How on earth,' he muttered angrily, 'Am I supposed to heal him if I'm too frightened to -'

He clamped his teeth closed, and held still. It was only because of this that he saw Potter's head turn, the tiniest bit.

Today was the day for distance, it seemed, as Draco skittered back in surprise. He was supposed to be in a coma – one that, no doubt, was intensified by the Immix Curse. Draco had looked through his books the previous night and discovered that the Immix Curse could intensify sleep, and induce catatonia on the rare occasion. The fall had caused the damage, but the Curse wouldn't allow it to heal.

Leave it to Harry Bloody _Potter_ to fight a near-incurable curse.

'You are far more a handful, Mr. Potter,' Draco said, mustering every ounce of courage he could recall and would ever need again, 'Than even your friends must think you worth.'

He held out his hand, and like a bird to the nest, the memory flew feebly to his hand.

* * *

No scene was immediately evident – nothing but a grey, cold nothingness met Draco's eyes. A vice tightened round his chest, and he fought; sickness burned at the core of himself, like an ember, like a coal, like a dream.

 _Be calm!_ He commanded, but the vice would not stop; _Be still!_ He demanded to no avail.

 _Potter!_ He finally roared, and the vice paused. The nothingness swirled questioningly, as if it recognised the name – or at least thought it did. Draco latched on to that idea. _Yes_ , he coaxed, _that is your name, Potter._

The nothingness, in turn, latched onto the non-sound, leaping hungrily top the morsel with all the furore of a starving man.

 **Name...** came the soft whisper. **...Potter. H... H?**

 _Harry,_ Draco said, and the name felt like lemon juice on his tongue – startling and strangely sour. _Harry,_ he repeated gently, and it lost some of the sourness. _Harry James Potter._

Silence, for an endless moment. For two.

**Th... tha...**

_Thank you,_ Draco said slowly, clearly, enunciating the words.

 **Thank you.** The voice, so much richer here in the depths of his mind, was much deeper than Draco had thought it would drop. The nothingness swirled, for just an instant, into the shape of a crooked smile.

 _Draco,_ Draco whispered, and the memory opened up like the sunlight behind heavy clouds.

* * *

The room, though decorated in princely colours of blue and silver (who could have foretold that Potter would have taste?), gleamed green from the Floo flame in the hearth. Potter was sitting before it in a vast chair that Draco recognised as the twin of one in the Manor – a Black family heirloom. To his surprise, no twist of jealousy or resentment came forth in his stomach.

 _It should come at no shock,_ he thought, trying hard to sound bitter. _He does, after all, live within the ancestral home of Black._

A voice, muffled by the Floo, was distinctly male and distinctly angry; the timbre, lightly familiar, was furious.

'Harry,' it rumbled, 'There has been some mistake, if you think that. I, faithless?' there was a short, guttural laugh, sounding as if it was bouncing off stony halls and floors of granite. 'Few would have been so faithful as I have been to you.'

'So you tell me,' Potter said lightly, but there was a dark, heavy undertone to his voice Draco recalled from his conversations with Mrs. Weasley and Ginevra (if, of course, they could be called that). 'Yet you strayed from your promise.'

There was an arching formality in Potter's voice that could not be natural, but neither could Draco determine if it was feigned. It appeared to satisfy the man through the Floo, however, even if the words did not; there was a soft murmur ( _perhaps a curse?_ ), then another laugh. 'You do me an injustice, Harry, to say I strayed.'

'Probably,' Potter said, dropping the formality and letting true anger (and since when could Draco tell the difference?) strike through his voice. 'You betrayed me so cleverly that to say you strayed is an understatement –'

Curiosity overcame Draco, and he rounded the seat in time to see the familiar face flinch as Potter snapped,

'Right, Admontious?'

Draco tensed, bewildered. Haggerthorn had never mentioned that he had known Potter. _Never_. It was the sort of thing he had _trusted_ Haggerthorn to mention.

There was a lull in the conversation as Draco realised that he knew very little about Haggerthorn, and swore softly under his breath. He was a reprehensible, maudlin fool, _trusting_ anyone! He should have done all of the primary care for Potter. He should have been the one to renew the Aliment Charm on Potter's stomach, the one checking his vital signs –

And what was this about a betrayal? What deal – what arrangement – had Potter and Haggerthorn conducted that merited so grave an insult? Any pureblood worth their salt would bristle at the word betrayal and the connotations of dishonour that followed hot on its heels. Surely it wasn't _political_ ; Draco scoffed at the thought. Potter was too _pure_ to involve himself in a business so corrupt.

'I have asked you many a time, Harry,' Haggerthorn said, in a tone almost gentle, 'To call me Monty.'

'And do you the honour of a nickname?' Potter said, slipping back into the formality that had to be a side effect of all the Black air he was breathing in. 'I shouldn't think so.'

'Please, Harry,' Haggerthorn said, voice softening piteously for a moment as he changed tact. 'Don't dismiss me so -'

'And why shouldn't I?' Potter lashed out, voice imperiously cold. 'You have followed me around these months like a child after a hero, and I'm sick of it.' Towards the end his voice roughed out and heated up, slipping back into what Draco knew from previous memories to be his natural timbre.

'Stop it!' Haggerthorn cried out. 'I have tried everything I could think of – I have sent you gifts, letters, invitations to events that you couldn't get into without me –'

'And you want me to be grateful for you _stalking_ me?' Potter asked dangerously, his voice uncomfortably low. 'I have told you time and time again, I'm not interested. I've even asked you to promise to not contact me, which you agreed to do, _Mr._ Haggerthorn.' Harry picked up his wand to end the call, when Haggerthorn cried out -

'Please! At least tell me one thing!'

Potter gritted his teeth, and Draco watched in fascination as the muscles near the corner of his jaw tightened. Clearly, this was an issue of an obsessed, infatuated fan; when Potter awoke, Draco would need to request to release Haggerthorn's name to the Ministry as a possible suspect. But, as Draco realised with a sharp thought, that alone wouldn't make this a soul-definition. What had changed Potter so drastically, in this moment, with Haggerthorn?

'One thing,' Potter spat through clenched teeth, clearly exasperated with his unwanted guest.

'Is it someone else – is that why you don't want me?'

The way Potter turned his head in the next moment, almost demure, would have fooled a lesser man into believing him embarrassed; but Draco could see his face. Across it, thoughts flitted interminably, each one rapidly considered and rejected, and Draco watched him become more and more frantic as no good idea came to mind.

'I already can see it's yes,' Haggerthorn said, and in the flames his head bowed. 'Who is it, if I could know?'

Startled out of his mind, Potter looked like a Redcap in the sights of a collapsible cauldron. His mouth opened and closed rapidly, and Draco had just sucked in the breath to laugh when Potter blurted:

'Draco Malfoy!'

Draco choked blisteringly on the air he had inhaled, coughing as violently as if an ember from the Floo had burrowed into his oesophagus. Haggerthorn in the fire looked just as bewildered as Draco felt; had his name just been the first thing on Potter's mind? And if so, _why_?

'You can't be serious,' Haggerthorn said after a moment, the slow words dripping like molasses through the fire. 'That snooty, self-important Healer? Over _me_?'

Draco's opinion of the man rapidly plummeted.

'Yes,' Potter said, with little more conviction than Haggerthorn. 'It's been a long time since we've seen each other, but he's made something out of himself, and no once can say the git isn't talented.'

Draco paused, and his eyes drifted from Haggerthorn to Potter, whose face was slightly crinkled from hard thought. He looked to be asking himself, _If I really was in love with Malfoy, why would I be so_?

'He's always worked hard for the health of his patients, and even though he hasn't always been the most upstanding citizen, he's always been fairly honourable.' Potter's eyes softened, and Draco took a step back; he didn't care how flattering this all was, he was not someone to be pitied.

'He and his father were Death Eaters!' Haggerthorn said loudly. 'His father's in Azkaban, and his mother fled to the Continent! His aunt's a murderess, his cousin married a _werewolf_ , for Merlin's sake –'

Potter's growl was so convincingly animalistic that Draco almost drew his wand before he remembered that the damned thing didn't follow him into memories. Cold comfort, when Potter looked furious enough to be a werewolf himself.

'His cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, was one of the most talented Aurors I ever knew, and died in the Battle of Hogwarts, along with her husband. Remus Lupin was the most patient, talented teacher I ever had, and one of the most honourable. He sacrificed his life and his wife's so that you could be here today to slander them.

'They have a son, did you know that? He's only eight years old. He's an incredibly powerful Metamorphmagus, and he' also happens to be my godson.

'And, yes, Lucius Malfoy is in prison and Narcissa Malfoy is on the Continent. With people like you in public, I don't blame her.' At this point Haggerthorn looked thoroughly cowed, but Potter wasn't finished. He sat forward, pinning Haggerthorn in place with his stare.

'But Draco -' a shiver, entirely unwanted, slid up Draco's spine '- didn't give up. He didn't go into politics like his father wanted. He didn't become a rich recluse. He entered a difficult program and excelled in one of the most complex and theoretically-rich fields of medical magic. He came back to England despite sodding bastards like _you_ holding him accountable for events beyond his control, and now he holds a good position in one of the best hospitals in the world.' A strange look passed through Potter's eyes, the light of a paradigm shift, and he added slowly, 'It doesn't hurt that he's really bloody fit, but...'

'I can't believe it,' Haggerthorn whispered, and Potter flinched.

'If you tell anyone of this,' Potter hissed fiercely, and this time it was Haggerthorn who flinched, 'I will shame you in front of the Wizarding World and the Daily Prophet. You _will_ be silent,.' Potter raised his wand, and said, almost absently, 'We're done here, Monty.'

'You called me M–' Haggerthorn said, sounding pathetically ecstatic, but a wave of Potter's wand cut off the call. The thin shift of holly toppled from Potter's fingers to the floor.

Draco felt as if his soul followed after, tumbling haphazardly this way and that through the air, until it hit with a soft thud as Potter whispered, 'I just talked myself into being in love with _Malfoy_.' His face was distraught, but if Draco could fight past the shock, he could see a new light in Potter's face, one that had blinked into being when he had started speaking, and only grown through the conversation with Haggerthorn.

He couldn't fight the shock.

Draco stood rooted to the spot as Potter leapt to his feet, a kinetic burst of desperation. 'Okay, Harry, okay,' Potter muttered rapidly, fumbling over his words in his haste. 'If you can talk yourself into it, you can talk yourself out of it. He's a git, a slimy bastard, who called you names and cursed you all to hell in school –'

Potter groaned spectacularly, and Draco hated that the sound was low, deep, earth-shaking. '...Which was _eight fucking years ago_!' he swore, and spun in a circle, hands coming up to knead at his brow. 'C'mon, Harry! Don't lock yourself into this. You just said things that sound attractive. You haven't seen him in ages, it's just a passing fancy.'

Another groan. 'Which is why you kept tabs on him through the papers, right?' A venomous response to a desperate rationale. 'Or perk up whenever his name's mentioned.'

He spun in place, briefly, before coming to a stop, and the jerky reversal from movement to movement left Draco dizzy. 'But I can't have just talked myself into this. I _can't_. Besides, he probably doesn't even remember I'm alive –'

_Oh, how wrong you are, Potter._

'– or at least hates me still –'

_So little faith. How could I hate you if –_

Draco was losing the war against his own thoughts, even as Potter lost his battle against his own convictions.

A full minute more of his anserine motions, and Potter gave up, collapsing bonelessly onto his chair. 'It's just the World Cup stress,' he said firmly, but there was already a chink of doubt in his armour. Draco could hear it through the maelstrom of his own thoughts, which all began and ended with the word _Potter_. 'I'll take a break – when it's all over, I'll go to America, or something. I've always wanted to go. And I'll take short breaks from practice – I'll go see the Dursleys. Maybe...'

His face lit up hopefully, then fell again, and he placed his hand over his face. His voice was very muffled when next it came through.

'Harry Potter, you unbelievable idiot. You just fell in love with you _school rival_.'

And as if the word rival was a switch, the memory blinked grey.

* * *

Draco stumbled back from Potter in shock, the indigo orb flying like lightning to burrow into his heart. The earth beneath Draco's feet seemed to rock, trembling under the new weight of his revelation, and so it took him a moment to realise that he was not alone in the room.

He whipped around and brought his wand up, _Protego_ already on his lips. The shield that came forth probably saved his life, if Haggerthorn's disappointed look or the angrily sparking hex bouncing off was any indication.

'I thought about imprisoning you in his memory,' Haggerthorn said conversationally, and Draco flinched as he realised it had slid from its comfortable, gravelly daily timbre into something much more androgynous and sinister. (Much like the voice, he would later realise, that had cursed Potter in the first place). 'But he's all about honour, and doing this sneakily wouldn't be very honourable.'

'So you curse me when I'm weak?' Draco spat; behind him, Potter was already starting to drag himself up from the depths of catatonia, and suddenly all of Draco's attention shifted backwards and coalesced into one shining thought – _protect the patient_.

'Of course!' Haggerthorn laughed lightly. 'That's good strategy, something even he has to respect, as a war hero.'

A coughing sounded from behind him, and Haggerthorn's face softened grotesquely. 'Don't you see, Harry?' He called back and his tone was sweet, loving. 'Once I've removed him, you'll finally see that I love you. Look what I'm willing to do for you! I'm willing to fight for you, to –'

Draco, who at this point had recovered his footing and common sense, along with his firm sense of logic, pointed his wand and snapped, ' _Silencio_.'

Haggerthorn froze, bewildered, and Draco rolled his eyes. ' _Incarcerous_ ,' he muttered, and Haggerthorn toppled over, still frozen in a state of shock. He started thrashing furiously as Draco walked over, and pointed his wand at him again. ' _Expelliarmus._ '

The wand, a thin stick of yew, wormed its way out of the ropes and into Draco's hand. 'You forgot something very important when you messed with my patient, Haggerthorn,' he snapped, a deadly cold inundating very syllable. 'Or with me.'

He leaned down, and Haggerthorn flinched away.

'I was in the war, too,' Draco whispered. ' _Stupefy_.'

Haggerthorn's head went limp, and Draco straightened. He took a second to compose himself – securing the yew wand in a pocket of his robe, checking the tightness of the bonds critically – but it was an excuse to lengthen the time he didn't have to turn around.

Finally, he could delay it no longer, and turned – only to pinned in place by green fire.

Potter was staring at him; not open-mouthed, but certainly a look of surprise was over his face. He looked more well-rested, the logical part of Draco's brain managed feebly, and didn't appear to have suffered too badly for having slept the past four days in a comatose state. In fact, it had probably done him a fair amount of good, if his memories of the stress he had suffered during practice were to be trusted. But the logical part of Draco's brain was easily shoved aside by the much larger, much more panicked part, which was murmuring obscenities and a lengthy list of prayers, most of which started and ended with the word _Potter_.

'Glad to see you've recovered, Mr. Potter,' Draco managed after a long, mutual staring contest that made his stomach clench and unclench uncomfortably. His voice remained neutral, which was no small blessing when he wasn't certain what his face was doing. 'I will go alert Mr. and Mrs. Weasley-Granger that you have recovered from your coma, though you will of course be remaining for a few more days to ensure your continued health. I will also alert the Aurors that this man - ' he cast what he was certain was a poisonous look down at Haggerthorn, '– is responsible for the curse and has also attacked myself. If, of course, that is agreeable to you?'

Potter looked startled to be addressed so formally and neutrally, and so it took a moment for his mind to catch up to his ears. Charitably, Draco remembered the fact that he had just awoken from a coma and so could be excused his slowness.

'Yeah,' he said, and his voice was low, richer even than in his memories. Draco flinched, and he saw Potter's eyes take that in. 'Yeah, that's fine.'

'Good,' Draco managed after a moment. 'A mediwitch will be in to see to you momentarily.'

He turned to leave, levitating Haggerthorn before him, but was frozen by a cough and a soft murmur that he wasn't certain he heard.

He took a chance – the first he had in Merlin knows when – and murmured back, 'You're welcome,' then left the room.

* * *

Draco kept his distance, even from that part of the ward, for the next week – he answered necessary questions as he saw fit, directed reporters away from Potter's room, and accepted the acclaim and praise that came his way with considerably less pomp than he thought he would have.

It was a strange feeling, after eight years, to be so loved by the Wizarding World – to be hailed as a powerful and talented Healer, to see his name printed beside Potter's, to see his life story and accomplishments played out on ink, on newsprint. He turned away reporters by the dozens, which only made him more enigmatic, more noble, in the eyes of the public. He soon was forced to strengthen the wards on the Manor, with the abuse they were getting.

And there was a part of him that glowed under the attention, that made him smile in public, that relished the letter from his mother telling him all of the gossip (all wonderful for a change) about him on the Continent, and the shining sense of triumph when his father sent a note from Azkaban, quietly and simply congratulating him on 'a job completed to the best of a Malfoy's effort.' That was the pinnacle of success, in his opinion – no matter how he had tried to distance himself from his father, his father's approval would always be the greatest gift the man could give him.

But still there was a darkness to the underside – a weariness, an exhaustion he could not place, nor name. The dreams were no help; for all the quiet joy and accomplishment of the waking hours, they continued, dark and malevolent, and with the public spotlight on him, he was forced to take ever greater measures to hide the evidence. And so, when he requested a week's time off from the Head of the hospital, all he received was a nod and a soft, 'Feel better.' _It's certainly bad if even the Head can see it,_ he thought, and then left the office, sweeping out of the lobby onto the street.

It was mid-afternoon, so there were not even any reporters outside, none of them having expected his early dismissal. But the Muggles looked blissfully unaware of him, of everything, and he pressed the brooch surreptitiously before making his way to the Apparition point.

Though he would never admit it, and he immediately buried it deep within his soul (never would a Malfoy be accused of envying his lessers), he wished he could be so oblivious.

* * *

_It was softness – like cotton, like silk, like all of the sweetness he had never known the world could hold. He looked around, bewildered – where was the blood, the screams? Where was Nagini, with her foot-long fangs and her eyes the brightest slit of yellow? Where was Aunt Bella, with her mad laughter and her knobbly wand, forever promising pain at a flick of the black wood? Where was Father, cowering in the corner, where was Mother, weeping on a chair in an empty room, where was the Dark_ _Lord, crazed and mocking smile burned forever into the shadows of Draco's conscience?_

_It was gentle, this cocoon of warmth, light everywhere, the safest place in the world, spun of the dancing arrythmia of poetry and the kindest words he had ever heard. This was no place for him, and_ _yet, obscenely, he felt that this place was his._

_Hello? He called; no answer. Where am I? What's happened to my nightmares? Did the potion work? Have I died? Is this Heaven, or something more?_

_Never an answer, and so he floated. Slowly, the nightmares crept in again, showering him with anguish and bruises on his face that were almost becoming familiar._

_But for a moment, he floated, and if a spark of green followed him out, it was only a passing fantasy._

* * *

Draco awoke slowly, his his eyes fluttering open. Light already had blossomed her way into his room, marking high noon, and for a moment Draco didn't question what had awoken him, relished only the sense that he had not woken up screaming. But a moment passed, and he had to acknowledge Dringa, who stood, wringing her long ears in her hands in anxiety.

Since the night when he had said 'thank you' to her, she had become so much more subservient, so much more helpful; news of this deed had spread to the other elves, as well, if the awed and loving glances he got from the other elves was any indication. The service, if it was possible, had improved. He was considering adding 'thank you' to the list of things he said to the elves in dismissal.

'Dringa is sorry, Master, very sorry,' she burst out, 'But you is having a visitor, Master, one who wouldn't be turned away.'

'What?' Draco asked, a sense of bewilderment descending like a Lethifold.

'He came through the wards, Master, and we couldn't stop him!' she said, sounding on the verge of sobbing. 'He's downstairs, Master, and he's waiting. He's – he's – oh, Master!' she shook where she was standing, and sniffled. 'If Master is wishing it, Dringa and the other elves will be punishing ourselves for the next week, Master, so's we can make up for the intrusion.'

'That will be unnecessary, Dringa,' Draco said hastily; the last time the elves had gone through a long punishment, he had been unable to get anything done until he ordered them to stop. Besides; he had an idea who this visitor was. Just in case it was someone else like Haggerthorn, though, he reached for his wand. 'You are to escort the visitor to the eastern parlour, and offer them tea,' he said, and waved his wand. Robes flew from his wardrobe and arrayed themselves before his critical eye.

'W-will that be all, Master?' Dringa said, sounding very confused.

'Make sure there is a cup for me, as well,' Draco said, and nodded to Dringa. He thought about it a moment, then added, 'You may go. Thank you.'

The worshipful look he got in return was more than enough to guarantee it would be the best cup of tea Potter had ever tasted. Dringa rushed out of the room, and Draco considered his face in the mirror, taking a deep breath.

He could guess why Potter was here, if not why he had chosen to break through the wards instead of Apparating here and knocking on the door like a normal wizard. Someone (Granger, likely) had explained the Immix Curse to him, and he was here either to curse Draco or demand that he remove the memories so that he could get on with his life. The soul-definition was clear on that point, at least; though Potter was obsessed with him, it was definitely _not_ a voluntary thing. Potter had tried to _leave the country_ to escape what he had talked himself into. Not even onto the Continent, but to _America_. Clearly, he didn't enjoy this.

Draco deliberately chose a plainer set of robes, a dark blue with sheer grey lining; it would neither flatter nor conceal him. Honesty was the way to deal with Potter, if his memories had nothing else to tell Draco. Honesty, and honour; if Potter wanted the memories removed or modified, Draco would acquiesce (even if it wasn't strictly legal), because that kind of intrusion into anyone's life, whether intentional or not, had to be taken seriously.

He wondered when he had become responsible, in that sense, then shrugged it off as he finger-combed his hair into a semblance of normalcy. It didn't matter; he _was,_ now.

He considered the bruises, almost Vanished them, but covered them with a sigh and a strong glamour. The last thing he needed was Potter's hero-complex rearing its admittedly-handsome head.

He turned to open the door, and all but skittered back. Because there, silent as the grave and just as solemn, was Potter himself.

Irritation was the first emotion to surface after shock, and Draco snapped, 'Who gave you permission to enter my chambers?'

He clamped his mouth shut after that, as Potter had shook his head, still silent. His face had not regained the dark circles and lines that had marred it before he had gone into hospital, but there was a weariness there, nonetheless. He stepped forward, and Draco froze as Potter took his chin in his fingers, tilting it this way and that.

'Nightmares?' he asked after a decades-long moment.

Draco actually stepped back, shock bleeding into anger, but Potter only nodded. 'I know the feeling,' he said, and the sincerity froze Draco's fury in its tracks. Draco considered him defensively, but Potter's expression didn't change.

Another moment, and Potter sighed. 'Sorry I scared you,' he said, 'But I had to see you.'

'I was not _scared_ , I was _startled_ ,' Draco said, his pride wounded. 'It's not every day I'm told my wards have been broken through.'

Potter laughed, then closed his mouth, as if startled that he had done so. Draco paused a moment, but when neither of them looked inclined to address the reason Potter had come, he sighed. 'Come on, Mr. Potter,' he said, stepping around Potter towards the door. 'I suspect we have much to discuss.'

'You really have changed,' Potter said, his voice slow and awed.

Without turning, Draco scoffed. 'And you haven't?' he asked, and led the way down the parlour.

About halfway down, Dringa puffed into existence, looking stricken. 'Master! Master, your visitor has –' she said, before she caught sight of Harry. 'Oh,' she finished, sounding very small.

'It's quite alright, Dringa,' Draco said kindly, and he felt Potter shift in surprise behind him. 'Mr. Potter means me no harm.'

'Al – all right, Master,' she said, sounding scared stiff. 'The tea is in the parlour, as you requested.'

'That'll be all,' he said, and she disappeared silently.

In the wake of her silence, he led Potter to the parlour.

'Please, Mr. Potter, take a seat,' he said, gesturing to one of the chairs as he opened the door. The eastern parlour was a room of cream and gold – one of his mother's additions when she had first married his father, and one of his favourite rooms in the whole Manor. The tray was set neatly upon the table in the middle of the array of chairs, and Draco had only moved a step in their direction when he was paused.

'Harry,' Potter said simply. 'Call me Harry.'

Draco turned in place, startled; the look on Potter's face, though, was not some overwhelming emotion, like infatuation or kindness. It was not completely neutral, either, just – gentle, Draco supposed was the word. Draco tried to summon up a smile, and only managed a quirk of the lips.

'Of course. Take a seat, Harry.' Potter's eyes closed, but he did as he was asked. Draco poured him a cup, and set it before him, then poured himself one and took a seat. He sipped at it, and closed his own eyes; as he'd thought, it was the best cup of tea the Malfoys could offer. He opened his eyes to Pott – Harry's intense scrutiny. He set his cup aside.

'I'm assuming you are here because someone disclosed what, precisely, the Immix Curse is to you,' Draco said trying (and succeeding) at sounding bland.

Harry started. 'Yes,' he said, blinking. 'Hermione told me the name, and I looked it up on my own. Including –' he shook his head. 'Including the cure.'

Draco nodded precisely. 'I see. So, may I hazard a guess as to why you are here?'

Harry nodded, a slow, measured look overtaking his eyes.

'You are here to discover how Haggerthorn managed to construct this whole plot, which, with your permission, I've already disclosed to the Aurors. Then, I suspect you would like certain memories modified or removed entirely, which I can do for you. And lastly, you may be here to demand recompense for the intrusion into your mind.' At Harry's thunderstruck look, Draco laughed lightly. 'I do pride myself on understanding the magical mind, P – Harry.'

Harry shook his head. 'The first is true, perhaps,' he said after a moment. 'But the last two – certainly not. I value who I am too much to change the memories that got me there.' He shook his head again. 'Let's not dance around the subject. I know you've seen certain – memories –' his face went a ruddy shade of pink, but with true Gryffindor spirit, he continued doggedly on where Draco would have faltered, 'So let's just talk openly.'

'Of course,' Draco said, fighting his own mortification. Never had he been so personally involved in a case, and the experience was one he'd like not to repeat. 'When you told Haggerthorn who you – well, he decided to get at me through you. It really was quite ingenious, the whole plan. By casting the Immix Curse on you, he guaranteed that you would find yourself under my care – applying for the job as Healer's Aide made sure he would be there to strike the final blow. He, of course, did not count on your – feelings – persisting, nor on my prior battle experience remaining.'

He wasn't sure who was redder, at this point, he or Harry.

'How _much_ of this was disclosed to the Aurors?' Harry said after a moment of struggling with the words.

'Only that Haggerthorn was obsessed with you and myself and determined to rid the world of us. They can draw their own conclusions,' Draco said hastily, uncertain of why he felt the need to reassure Harry, of all people.

Some of the red bled away from Harry's face, and he smiled beatifically. 'That's good,' he said, and stood, walking around the coffee table towards the door. A part of Draco cried out, in some kind of pain that was wholly unfamiliar and entirely unwanted. He shushed it, and even managed to smile up at Harry as he passed.

The rest of him realised that his own chair was on the way to the door, and froze as Harry stooped over him, muttered, 'Wouldn't want them to get the wrong impression, would we?', and kissed him.

Draco scrambled back so quickly his chair almost toppled, disbelief a heavy weight that froze his shoulders in place. 'What are you doing?'

Harry leaned back and smiled, but this time there was a definite edge of bitterness to the curve. 'It's clear by the way you've been speaking and acting that my feelings are not reciprocated. I was stealing a moment of your time, for which I apologise.' He paused, and quirked his head, and Draco realised that he _really_ hated the air of formality that the Black House had clearly instilled in him – at least, when it was directed at himself. 'How did you phrase it? Recompense for the intrusion into my mind?'

The smile grew smaller as Harry nodded. 'Good day, Healer Malfoy,' he said politely, and turned to go.

Draco was on his feet almost before his brain commanded them to move, and certainly before rationality had a chance to slink into the picture. His wand was already out, and with a flick the door slammed closed.

'Do you honestly think,' Draco said, summoning up the most deadly tone he could, even as Harry whipped around, staring wide-eyed and defensive, 'That you could just waltz in, break down my wards, scare my elves, and – and – _kiss_ me, all without consequence?'

'That was the hope, yes,' Harry said slowly, confused.

'Why can't you just go about this like a normal person?' Draco demanded hotly, crowding forward, even as Harry retreated. ' _Normal_ people knock on the door, ask for a date, or bloody _think_ about what the other person may consider! But _no_ , it's your _stupid_ Gryffindor sense of assumption –'

He poked Harry hard in the chest with his wand, and a small hole was singed into the fabric of his robes. '– That you know exactly how everyone feels based on past experience!'

'Isn't that how it normally goes?' Harry asked, the puzzlement not receding. 'Predict the behaviour based on past behaviour?'

'People are capable of unpredictability, _Mr. Potter_ ,' Draco snarled, and tossed his wand over his shoulder. Harry's eyes followed it, startled, and returned to Draco's face, not the slightest inkling of what was going on firing up in his too-green eyes. Draco didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. None of it mattered – not the fame, not the money, not the respectability, or the safety, or the million other things that had mattered a moment ago and would probably make him regret every word he was saying right now.

But Harry's lips were warm under his, and his eyes wide, and when Draco pushed away from him he looked dazed, an expression Draco knew he was going to enjoy putting on him.

'And that, Harry Bloody Potter, is what we call unpredictability,' Draco snapped, then shoved him out the door.

* * *

Two nights later, he was reconstructing the wards from the ground up (to prevent any more Potter incidents) when a knock on the door rang through the entire Manor.

One of the older elves, Whispease, appeared before him, her oversized eyes (even for a house-elf) thoroughly bewildered.

'There's a Weasley, Master, at the door!' She announced, looking both terribly excited and terrified. 'He is asking to see you, Master, and Whispease is saying, "The Master is not to be seeing anyone", and the Weasley said that he is to be carrying a message from Mr. Potter, Master!'

Draco was silent a moment, until he came to a point where he could stop, and said, 'Bring him in.'

Whispease looked to faint. 'But, Master! We Malfoy elves are not letting in any Weasleys for _centuries_ , Master! We have all sorts of defences, Master, should you wish to –'

'I said, bring him in, Whispease,' Draco snapped. Whispease, looking cowed, nodded and disappeared, and in a moment, George Weasley stepped in, nodding.

'Very tasteful decorations,' he said in lieu of a hello. 'I expected more decadent, hedonistic finery from the Malfoys.'

'I expected no more of a polite greeting from a Weasley,' Draco said dryly. 'The message?'

'He _said_ you would be all about the business,' George tutted. 'I'm clearly the first Weasley here since before your grandfather was born. Can't we enjoy this reconciliation of the two feuding families?'

'Reconciliation? No,' Draco replied flatly. 'Mutual tolerance? Perhaps.' He waited a moment, then sighed. 'My message?'

'Here you are,' George said, producing an envelope with a flourish. 'He said he didn't trust owls at the moment, with all the reporters up your arse.'

Draco hid his wince at the uncouthness, and took the envelope.

'If that's it, then,' George said cheerily, 'I'll be on my way.' He turned, then paused, turning back. Draco, who had picked up his wand, set it down again with an internal sigh.

'Ron told me to tell you,' George said slowly, 'That he doesn't know what you did to Harry, but to thank you for it. He looks – he looks much more alive, not so tired, not so angry.' He nodded. 'I think that covers it.'

And before Draco could respond, he left.

Draco stared after him for a moment (was that an actual _thank you_? From Ronald _Weasley_ , no less?) before he realised what was in his hand.

He stared down at the sallow envelope, trying to get his thoughts straight. Since the day he had all but thrown Harry bodily from his house after kissing him, he'd been... tense. His dreams had faded into abstract wanderings through darkness and the occasional softness of a green winter-land, which both unnerved and delighted him. Even his bruises were started to fade from his skin, now, and a light glamour was the only necessary accoutrement to his daily outings.

But whenever he thought of Harry's name, or saw it printed in the paper, his stomach twirled and swooped like some overeager ballerina. The thought had put him off his breakfast for the past two mornings, which only had the elves fussing over him like a mother over a sick child.

Worse, he didn't know what he'd _do_ with Harry, once he had him. There were certain insurmountable issues he'd have have to try to skirt around, like (and he gulped, suddenly breaking into a cold sweat) the issue of an heir for the Malfoy family. Experimental brewers and theorists could fantasise all they wished, a potion or spell that could allow a male to bear a child were too far off to consider as a viable solution. Provided, of course that either of them were willing to take it – or that they were together long enough to consider it –

The whole thing made his head hurt. Too many variables for too complex a situation; he didn't even know if this was something Harry was committed to, or in fact an infatuation that was daily waning. For all he knew, the letter in his hands could be nothing more than a polite 'fuck off, signed Harry'.

He set the letter down, and laced his hand on his head. The cool skin did nothing to soothe the pounding ache. He wished there was someone he could ask – someone who could advise him. But who could possibly understand the two volatilities that were Harry Potter and himself?

The answer struck him like a hammer on an anvil, and he almost staggered from the shock of it.

Of _course_ there was someone who knew them both well. Even better, it was someone who was more than willing to disclose the information.

Draco, judging the half-wards strong enough for now, whirled in place, snatching the letter up, and striding towards the grate. At that moment, Whispease appeared with a small pop, and stared at him as he took up the small pot of Floo powder on the mantle.

'Master?' she asked timidly. 'Dinner is almost finished.'

'Keep it warm for me,' he said, throwing the powder in. 'Thank you,' he added belatedly, and as he shouted, 'Office 1638, St. Mungo's!' he saw her faint dead away from the shock.

* * *

'Phineas!' He said loudly, managing by the good grace of Merlin to step through the fireplace instead of stumbling. 'Phineas!'

'Yes, young Master Malfoy?' said the portrait drowsily, having just woken up.

'I need to speak to you,' Draco said quickly, before Phineas could begin grumbling. 'About H – Potter.'

It was s if Phineas had swallowed a Pepper-Up Potion, so quickly did he awake. 'Finally overcome those morals of yours, hm?' Phineas said, sounding delighted. 'About time – they do not fit well with your proud Black heritage. I remember your Great-great Aunt Elizabeta was the most _awful_ gossip –'

'Phineas,' Draco interrupted. 'I really, really need to know some things about him. We can gossip properly later.'

'Of course,' Phineas said wisely, nodding like some sage in front of a petitioner. 'What do you need to know?'

'Anything,' Draco said without thinking, then flushed. 'Everything. I – well, suffice it to say that there are certain questions that need answering.'

Phineas peered beadily out at him, though he probably thought it to be a cunning look. 'I suppose you have found out his great and tragic love for you?'

Draco felt his flush deepen. 'I somehow doubt it's all that.'

'You have not spent the last few months watching him pine over you,' Phineas said primly. 'As he should be. A descendant of the noble House of Black should have no less than the most ardent suitors.'

Draco looked at him narrowly. 'Surely you don't approve?' he asked.

'The Potter of your school days? Certainly not!' Phineas sniffed, then paused. 'But his wealth has accumulated... and his political power is considerably larger, larger than even your own... and he has certainly obtained far better manners than he once possessed. Above all that, he is a very magically powerful wizard.' Phineas nodded yet again. 'It would be a strategically good match.'

'I need an _heir_ , Phineas,' Draco sighed, despairing even though the portrait's counsel was putting other, smaller worries to rest. He should have thought to seek out his advice sooner. 'And there are no potions or spells that could give me _that_.'

'Ah!' Phineas said, and instead of nodding grimly long, as Draco had anticipated, he looked pleased. 'But that is where you are fortunate! Have you forgotten his godson's mother? She may have tainted blood thanks to her Mudblood father, and the child may have a werewolf for a father, but!' His grin widened. 'Surely you have not forgotten the House of Lupin! A small pureblood family, of course, but not an unwealthy one. Though I cannot recall which parent he has the blood from,' Phineas thought aloud. 'Nonetheless, as the only child of Black blood remaining, and as he considers Potter to be his guardian – so much s to call him Father, and discuss adoption – you truly have no worries about an heir at all.'

Draco was speechless, both with wonder and irritation. Of course, of course – not only was the child already related to him, but it was a child already eligible for two – no, _three,_ including Potter's – pureblood vaults.

The issues were, abruptly, cleared up, and suddenly Draco didn't know what to do with himself.

Phineas handily cleared that up, as well, as he said in an unusually good mood, 'But, come now. What sparked your sudden curiosity?'

Draco flinched, and fished the letter from his pocket. 'I received this, from Harry.'

'First-name terms already?' Phineas said slyly, but Draco didn't care. 'What does it say?'

Draco flushed again. 'I, erm... haven't opened it, yet.'

Phineas' mouth would have been open, if he hadn't been so well-bred. As it was, his eyebrows were nearly removed from his forehead. 'Open it, you dunderhead!' he said loudly, and Draco sat down hard on his seat, startled. He still reached for the letter-opener, and slit the envelope open.

_Draco –_

_I'm sorry, and you're right. If only my kid self could hear me now, he'd be having a heart attack._

Draco smiled.

_I'm prone to grandiose romantic notions (Hermione's words, not mine), which may have made me do something stupid, like break through your wards, or expect you to say no, or to let you throw me out of your house._

_Or – well, maybe that was a good idea._

Draco's smile grew, forgetting for a moment Phineas' curious stare.

_So, I'm really sorry. I mean that. If what Hermione's told me is true, you've seen many of my memories from the last four months, up to and including the moment I talked myself into love with you. Or infatuation, or something; Merlin, this is hard._

_But I realised, that for all of my generalisations and ideas of who you were, some of which were spot on the nose, I don't really_ know _you. Nor you me. But, I want to try. If that means anything._

_Even if it doesn't, meet me outside Hogsmeade tonight, at ten. Go past the turnstile at the end of the road about a kilometre, and take a left._

_If nothing else, come to tell me to sod off._

_Harry._

Draco glanced up at the clock he had mounted on the wall, and swore; it was 9:45.

'Well?' Phineas demanded.

'He wants me to meet him outside Hogsmeade in fifteen minutes,' Draco said, startled, having forgotten Phineas' existence for a moment.

'Are you going to let this chance disappear?' Phineas demanded. 'Fame! Wealth! Honour! An _heir_!'

'Happiness,' Draco tacked on, casting the note aside.

'Well, if you insist on being Gryffindor about it,' Phineas sniffed. 'Now go!'

* * *

'Draco?'

The moon was but a sliver of herself, and somehow Harry still managed to shine under her light. Draco didn't know what he looked like – probably a frightful mess, having missed his original Apparition point in his haste and force to run the last stretch – but the look on Harry's face was enough to quell his fears.

The man across the clearing sighed, and gave him a bright, luminous smile. 'I was afraid you wouldn't come.'

'I almost didn't,' Draco said, and despite how much he wanted to make the sentence sting, it came across as gentle. 'I opened the letter fifteen minutes ago.'

'Ah,' Harry said, and fell silent.

'I'm not here to tell you to sod off,' Draco said after a minute of almost-silence, in which insects sang into the July heat and soft coos of owls could be heard.

Harry stepped forward a bit, and damned if the moon didn't highlight his face in the most attractive way possible. Or maybe that was just Draco. 'I hoped not,' he said, and his voice had dropped. 'I didn't dare assume so.'

'Yes, well,' Draco shrugged, 'some things are unpredictable.'

He took a few rapid steps forward, until he was almost chest-to-chest with Harry.

'Others are not,' he breathed, and just before Harry leaned in, he stepped away again.

'You just had to make your point, didn't you,' Harry said, sounding both exasperated and amused. It was not a question.

'Of course,' Draco agreed affably. 'Now, are you going to kiss me here, or are you going to do it at the Manor, where at least we can follow the kiss along to its inevitable conclusion in comfort?'

Harry laughed, and it was everything that Draco remembered from the memories, only more _there_ – perhaps, because he was hearing it through his own ears. Deep and rich and rolling it was, shaking the earth and climbing up to Draco's shoulders, where it lay upon him like some mantle of mirth, until it faded away to echoes in the trees. 'Always the Slytherin,' he chuckled, and for the first time in his life Draco knew that the word wasn't used as an insult.

'Always the noble Gryffindor, Harry James Potter,' he said, doing him one better, as always, and holding out his hand.

Harry reached out for it, then faltered. 'It sounds...' he paused, and when Draco quirked an eyebrow at him, he froze. 'My name,' he clarified after a moment. 'There was nothing but grey, and then a voice gave me back my name.' He shook his head in wonder. 'No. _You_ gave me back my name.'

Draco was still, mouth dry. No one sane should be able to fight off the Immix Curse's effects to the point where they could remember the catatonia. And yet, here he was, bloody inestimable Harry Potter, whom the impossible seemed to follow around like an abandoned Crup.

'You are,' he said, dropping his hand, 'The single most vexing and impossible wizard I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.'

'Even your insults are compliments,' Harry said, voice still wondrous, and then oh well there went Draco's train of thought. As if anyone could be entrusted to hold onto such an abstract thing when Harry Potter was kissing you senseless.

* * *

_The dream was white. All white, no shades of blue or pink or grey here, only the colour that Draco brought in himself. He was dimly aware, for the first time, of the world outside – he knew himself to be asleep, tangled rather phenomenally with Harry, whose magic was just as strong as Phineas had suggested and more than capable of responding to its master's emotions, even to the point of enveloping a partner in sleep._

_If nothing else (and there was so very much else), Draco would have to keep Harry for this – this utter sense of peace and belonging._

_And as he sank into the white, so much so that his body lost all its outlines, he smiled._

_He had expected many things from Potter when he had come under his care – frustration (check), n increased work load (of course) and anxiety (in spades). He had not expected kisses, or trust, or an heir, or a spectacular orgasm to come with the package. And if love, or happiness, was a long term benefit of that package –_

_Then Draco Malfoy, Mind Healer, was certainly not complaining._


End file.
